From the Wreckage
by H.G.Wells
Summary: July 4th, 1996. The alien invasion that threatened to strip Earth of all life was stopped against all odds. Yet amidst the wreckage and celebration, the aftermath would prove every bit as dangerous. The invaders were finally defeated in those years through the undercover help and effort of heroes unknown and unsung, human...and non-human. This is the story of that secret war.
1. Prologue: Unseen Observers

**Prologue: Unseen Observers**

 **Planet Earth, Sol System**

 **July 4th, 1996**

It was a truly beautiful world.

A world of water coloured in bright and dark blues, oceans that covered the vast proportion of the surface. However, if the planet had been nothing but ocean, it would probably have not held the same attraction. There were vast continents that betrayed the greens of forest, prairies and jungles, the red and yellow of deserts and the brilliant white of polar ice-caps; all combined to create what seemed to an outside observer like a world truly blessed.

An observer of that same world at this precise time however, would have swiftly concluded that all of that beauty would soon be stripped away like flesh from bones.

The herald of that terrible fate - a fate that had befallen so many beautiful planets in the galaxy - loomed over the blue-green sphere, advancing on it like some monstrous predator born out of blackness of space itself.

A huge, almost egg-shaped hemisphere, with two great horn-like structures hanging beneath the prow. Up close, the surface of the planetoid-sized monster was covered with trenches, channels and all manner of artificial structures - but from afar it seemed smooth, polished, almost organic save for a disk-shaped indentation close to the highest point of the hemisphere, which formed the bulging prow of the gigantic vessel.

It was a form that had come to be feared and recognised all too well. A hiveship of the Swarm had arrived to feed, claiming yet another ripe, defenceless world in its long list of victims.

Those who inhabited the planet below likely had not seen it approaching from a distance; their primitive level of technology was certainly one reason to believe this. But the hiveship had cunningly approached the planet from behind the single moon. It had parked itself there in a stationary orbit, using the lone grey satellite as a natural shield while the forces of the Swarm deployed planetside.

By that point, the people of this world would have been able to see the bringer of their doom, even with their rudimentary sensors and observation systems.

Yet there was something else, something that they would not see at all - and hopefully, nor would the sensors of the Swarm.

Something else - like the invading mothership - that was not of this world.

It was hidden just at the southern pole of the planet's moon, nothing more than a tiny insect or microbe compared to the monstrous hiveship. Close to the surface, no more than a few hundred feet and making every effort to stay unseen by the invaders.

Anyone trying to look at it with the naked eye would have to be less than one hundred metres close to see anything of note. Even then, what they would see would be nothing more than a brief, soft shimmer; a minor compensating adjustment of camouflage as the object quietly and subtly changed position, bringing itself into lunar orbit.

Anyone who saw that shimmer would have made out a sleek delta-shape, crafted to perfection for the purposes of stealth and discretion. It was the ideal tool for observing the Swarm's latest activity, from what its crew hoped and believed was a place of complete safety.

The master of this remarkable vessel felt no need for worry - his command was from the most advanced class of stealth-scout ships in the galaxy. Thanks to the specially designed alloy coating and numerous scrambling systems, almost no known technology could detect it on any sensor screen.

Furthermore, the active camouflage on the scout ship's hull rendered it all but invisible to the naked eye, too.

If he had turned the camouflage off, an observer would have been immediately impressed by the beauty of his vessel. Like all things made by his people, it was built with such precision and love that made it both aesthetically stunning and practical to a point. The hull was a dull silver, with glowing blue lining and power vessels pulsing across it's elegant form.

The engines emitted this same pale purple-blue light, energy capable of propelling this vessel at incredible speeds if needed - even though they were currently inert. Right now, most of the ship's energy was devoted to the stealth and scanning systems - the rest was for life support only. She was currently using a back-up propulsion system that required no diversion of power and ensured maximum stealth - a pair of energy fields, mounted either side, that acted as solar sails.

Thus the scout ship moved softly and silently with the solar winds and cosmic rays, like a sailing boat on a calm breezy day.

Her light armament would not be used here. She was but a phantom, lurking in the shadows.

Her mission was not to intervene. Only to watch.

The Swarm would not see them, the commander was sure of that. Still, he knew he was taking an enormous risk with his own life and the lives of his crew by putting his vessel, a mere ranger shadow-ketch, this close into the hiveship's path; even if it was the best point of closest observation.

Yet he was a Vorentine Ranger of the Ambul'tiyen, as were the rest of his band. They had all passed the most gruelling of trials, sworn the most solemn and binding oaths to become Rangers of the Grey Wanderers, who scoured and scouted the length and breadth of this galaxy in service to their people. They would do what was expected of them.

"Keep us in the shadows," he commanded, after making the last orbital adjustment. "Let us not become an addition to their feast in this system."

The crew - no more than five Rangers in total, including the commander - obeyed silently, as was their custom. Their cat-like eyes glowed blue and gold in the dim light of the sloop's cockpit as their large, four-digit hands cycled across the holographic controls. Writhed in grey cloaks and dull-coloured, advanced stealth armour, Ambul'tiyen Rangers were masters of stealth and subterfuge in their own right.

As such, nearly all Ambul'tiyen vessels were built the same way. They tended to sport the same dull silver of this sloop's hull, as well as dark bronze or gunmetal. A far cry from the impressive golden ships of their more common kin, the vessels that served in the mighty battlefleets of the Vorentine Empire.

Yet they felt no need to impress when it came to their spacecraft design. They were outside the borders of the vast imperium of their species, and thus were not bound to its customs and expectations. Ostentatious hulls served no purpose for those who walked the Path Beyond - a path of total ascetic devotion.

The vessel had powered down to the point that even the most highly-advanced sensor systems would register it as nothing more than idle static, even if the stealth systems were not switched on. While that might have seemed like an excessive precaution, no chances could ever be taken where the Swarm was concerned.

This Ranger band knew what their enemy was capable of, having survived far more dangerous tasks than this. Together with Resistance forces, they had observed and harried the Swarm in this remote spiral arm in many separate engagements. Their mission in this system was just the latest stage in a long hunt, having tracked this hiveship for many cycles before the trail had finally lead them here, well beyond the borders of Vorentine space.

The latter point was not unusual for the Rangers, but even so - the captain always felt a small level of... _unease_ , whenever he and his band were the only living members of their kin for many parsecs. He could fell this in the minds of the others on board too, a feeling no doubt multiplied by the Swarm's presence. They knew his thoughts too - all of his kind possessed that ability.

They were all nervous. But that was of no consequence. They all remembered the mantras of the Ambul'tiyen, of every Vorentine warrior.

 _Fear is but a barrier of the mind._

 _A barrier to be crossed. An Illusion._

 _It cannot stop the devoted, the faithful, the righteous._

The Ranger captain gazed upon the hiveship and its prey through the holo-display. Thirty-six of its huge harbinger craft, the first to deploy to any world it invaded, had already detached. Right now, they were hamstringing this world to the bone.

The rangers had first arrived when the harbingers of the Swarm had begun to deploy above the sprawling cities of the native sentients - primitive, mammalian-simian beings that were known to call themselves Humans. They had been secretly observed by other scouts of the Ambul'tiyen and the Empire itself before; their existence had been known for a long time.

Not that knowing of them was really significant. Humans were a planet-bound species, the captain knew. From previous observations it was known they had made a few manned orbital flights, launched a vast array of crude satellites and even robotic probes to their neighbouring planets.

Beyond that, they had not done much else outside their planet. They were a divided race; it was known that they regularly waged war upon each other on their own homeworld, from which they could not leave (and would now never leave). Previous observations in the few dozen solar cycles before now had found strong radiation signatures consistent with the detonation of nuclear weapons - whether these were tests or used in an actual war, it was not clear.

It was also known that their crude technology was polluting the local environment; the rangers had made early scans of this planet on arrival and discovered a shockingly huge hole in the ozone layer, as well as an increased greenhouse effect caused by the burning of combustible fuels.

The Ranger allowed himself to shake his head at that thought. If the Swarm had not come for these primitives, they would likely have destroyed themselves.

It brought him no pleasure to see the demise of a sentient civilisation. His people tried to hold themselves to high standards; he had been taught to value the sanctity of life, that every living being deserved respect and a chance for life in this universe.

Still, humans were primitives - to a Vorentine they were barely insects on the evolutionary ladder. In galactic terms they were an insignificant and unremarkable race, trapped in their blue-green paradise with no conception of what lay outside of their cradle. Their best minds might well have believed they were the only sentient race in the universe - until now.

Humanity thus fell well within the rules of non-interference with lesser races, that strictest of all Vorentine laws. Had the humans been an interstellar species, more significant to galactic affairs, it would have been a different question.

But this was not the case. The Rangers were only expected to observe humanity's demise. Nothing more. Not every race in this galaxy could be saved.

So they had watched the Swarm burn the defenceless cities, slaughter countless innocents as they had done so many times before. The Ranger's sense of revulsion never faded, even after witnessing the Swarm's repeated atrocities and disregard for all other life on countless occasions. He knew all too well their capacity to inflict suffering and misery.

If only there truly was some way of exterminating them, the way they had done to so many others...

The Ranger brought himself back to reality. Though the Swarm had been defeated on occasion, those victories had nearly always come at tremendous cost. Even then, those 'victories' had only been barely enough to delay the Swarm, let alone wipe them out for good.

Even the Empire had learned this to its cost, at the Battle of Ravvenia Minioris. He himself had been present at that battle, seen so many of his kind slain. Though they had scattered that Hive Fleet and slain the Harvester Queen at its heart, the fleets and legions of Holy Vorentium had suffered badly.

Amongst the dead had been the reigning Emperor himself - a blow that every living Vorentine still felt in their minds. The Ranger still recalled that day, the psychic pain at the Emperor's death throbbing in the back of his mind.

After the battle, the Empire declared the Swarm temporarily defeated and withdrew from further direct confrontation with the invaders. It seemed a sensible decision - time was needed to replenish all military assets in this galactic arm, so pitched battles were best avoided. The Swarm appeared to have been turned - that 'victory' was, according to the Ancient herself, the only time a Harvester Queen had ever been slain.

However, this proved to be premature.

The Ranger had tried to believe all that sacrifice had been worth it - but the Hive Fleet had simply splintered into smaller fleets, mostly commanded by the Navigator caste. These splinters continued their Queen's campaign of galactic destruction and pillage in their wake.

This lone hiveship was one such splinter, albeit a very small one. It would devour enough primitive, poorly-defended worlds such as this, gaining strength over time to form its own fleet, perhaps spawning its own Queen.

These splinter fleets had been ravaging this part of the galaxy for some time now, in the wake of Ravvenia Minioris. Their attacks occurred beyond the Empire's borders - thus they were left unchecked in spite of the Ambul'tiyen's protests. Though the latter continued in their actions against the Swarm, Holy Vorentium only provided token aid to the Resistance.

The Ranger sometimes felt anger at that decision - but the fact remained that the current Emperor did not wish a repeat of the battle that killed his father and so many brave warriors. Vorentium needed time to recover its strength - and the days when his people vigorously expanded their borders were long over. It cost so much just to keep the Empire alive in these times.

 _Perhaps that was a hopeless task..._

The Ranger finally decided to remove himself from his thoughts. They could infect the crew with low morale. That would not do.

He would focus on his duty.

"What is the status of this world?"

The inquiry was needless - but it would give the Ranger his focus.

"Grim, Brother-Warden." The fellow Ranger addressed the commander by his formal rank among the Ambul'tiyen. "Over one hundred of the native cities have been burned. Biosigns from the planet indicate that less than half of their population yet lives." He glanced once more at the scanner readings. "The Swarm is about to commence their fourth cleansing."

The Warden nodded, while indicating acknowledgement in his transmitted thoughts. They had observed three cleansings from the harbingers thus far - the first being the initial surprise attack.

The Swarm was nothing if not consistently methodical - their attack followed the standard pattern for nearly every other world of this technological stage that they had descended upon. First they would launch waves of cleansing, decimating the native population and crushing all resistance. These cleansings would be carried out by the harbingers, positioned evenly across the planet. Clouds of strikers would destroy anything the harbingers missed.

Once the final wave of cleansing was complete, the harbingers would land on the surface, converting themselves into temporary colonies while a tide of colonists and warriors would pour in from the mothership, expanding the new colonies as they grew.

At least one such harbinger had begun that process, and was now drilling into the planet's core - the main resource the swarm desired. Other colonies would be devoted to processing all plant and animal life into food product, extracting all valuable minerals and harvesting the planet's atmosphere and oceans for air and water supplies, respectively.

Only after everything else had been consumed would the planetary core be extracted - and then this planet would be left an airless, barren rock, stripped of all life and everything it had to offer.

Then the Swarm would move on, further strengthened by the latest feast.

The end would not be long now. The rangers knew that it would be the same outcome they had witnessed many times before.

Then a jolt of surprise shook one of the other crew-members at his station - a feeling of shock that spread through the thoughts of all the others. The Warden immediately sent an inquiry.

"What is it?"

"I can't explain, Brother-Warden...it simply does not make sense..."

"Tell me what you see," the Warden replied bluntly, while transmitting mild irritation and impatience to make his point. "If it made no sense, you would not have picked it up."

"The computer systems on the hiveship, Brother-Warden, their command signal...it has been thrown in turmoil. It shouldn't be happening, the Swarm's systems have always proven efficient...wait..." He cycled his fingers over the holographic controls, as he further exposed great confusion in his telepathy. "Brethren, whatever is affecting this hiveship's systems - it is attacking their shields most of all."

A moment of silence followed as the rest of the crew absorbed this revelation. That same crew-member broke it.

"Could it be the natives, Brother?"

One of the others made his derision clear in the local telepathic field.

"Nonsense. What in Verix's name could those insects do against a hive fleet, even a tiny splinter such as this?"

"Nothing," another scoffed, a crackle of dismissal echoing through his transmitted thoughts. "They aren't anywhere near the right level."

As unbelievable as it all seemed to the Warden, he had learned long ago to keep an open mind.

"Not as far as we _know_ ," he conceded, before sinking into his thoughts. There could be more to learn here. In a split-second, he made a decision. "Launch observers. We shall take a closer look."

The dismissive crew-member spoke up again, his telepathy making clear that he remained dismissive as ever.

"Really, Brother-Warden, why should we waste any more time and resources than we already have on these indolent, barely-sentient barbarian..."

"Enough!" The Warden's command snapped like a cracked-whip of psychic energy through the minds of all his underlings, before his voice returned to its usual serenity. "Launch the observers. Let us find out more."

Without further objection, the crew complied. The diminutive observer probes, shielded with stealth fields and leaving less than a whisper as they were launched, sped towards the planet, entering the atmosphere and surveying the surface below them.

What they discovered sent an even greater wave of surprise through the crew's minds.

"By Voren...they are fighting back." The mental voice of that first crewmember to report the anomaly was now laced with amazement, fascination...and now a strong trace of admiration. "Brother-Warden, my previous readings were correct. The energy shields of the Swarm - they have been compromised. The native weapons are hitting their mark!"

The probes relayed holographic recordings of the battles below them, which now played live throughout the cockpit of the shadow-ketch. Sure enough, the harbinger's shields had been lowered - and the human missiles, fired by their crude aircraft, were striking the giant hiveships and blowing chunks out of their hulls.

The feared striker craft, which had been massacring the human aerial forces in the past few planetary rotations, were not immune either. Hundreds of them were blown to pieces by the primitive homing missiles, or shredded by kinetic projectile weapons. The Swarm was taking serious losses.

"They must have done it," that same crewmember continued, the admiration growing in his thoughts. "They must have lowered the shields somehow. Disrupted the hiveship's command signal."

That same admiration was reflected in the thoughts of another crewmember - one who was usually far more reserved.

"They are making the Swarm pay," he remarked - before his thoughts overflowed with empathy for the primitives below. "They fight with honour."

In spite of the fact that they were still forbidden to interfere, the Warden felt some level of newfound respect for those he could only observe. They had observed previous battles the humans had fought against the swarm - as expected, they had been little more than massacres. The human weaponry and strike aircraft had been totally outclassed - they had no hope of penetrating their shields and the outcome had been obvious.

And yet, in just one of their planet's rotations, they had turned the tables. Somehow, the humans had disrupted the hive's command signal - and the Swarm was being repaid for their aggression. However, as the Warden brought himself back to reality, he knew this was simply a final act of futile defiance.

"If only it were enough to save them. See how their weapons strike the harbingers - they cause only surface damage. They can't bring them down - they don't possess the firepower. The shields of the Swarm filth will be restored soon."

"Unless they use their nuclear fission weapons," mused one of the two dismissive crewmembers - though the Warden could sense their contempt for the humans had faded. "But then they would only leave their planet poisoned. This effort of theirs will be for nothing."

Then a greater shock followed - one that flared through the crew's telepathy like a bright, booming firework.

One probe had been observing just long enough to capture the event - and the crew had to play it back several times to accept it as truth.

A single human aircraft, in a final act of desperation, had rammed the generator of a harbinger's central cascade beam - detonating it inside its housing in an almighty explosion. The feedback had created a cataclysmic firestorm - which the cascade beam was designed to unleash onto a target below - that now spread through the giant craft, burning it inside out.

The mighty ship was set ablaze, slowly descending from the sky before settling onto the sandy desert of the local surface, explosions cascading along its length. All around the scene of the battles, the remaining striker hordes - bereft of their local power source - either retreated to the closest harbinger in range or came crashing down onto the desert below.

The humans had just won their first victory.

"Impossible..." the Warden allowed that single thought to flow from his mind. The rest of the crew could only watch in silence.

Then there came another shock - one that was more relevant to the Vorentine observers.

One of the probes suddenly stopped transmitting, its feed lost in a blaze of static. At first the operator put it down to an isolated fault - before another failed, and then another.

Any chance that this might simply be a technical problem was swiftly crushed - by the final recording of one probe, which showed a striker craft firing green plasma which atomised the faithful observer to dust.

"We have been discovered, Brother-Warden!" The warning from the external sensors operator echoed sharply, a telepathic lightning bolt jolting the others into action. "The hiveship has traced the observer signatures...they are sending strikers for us!"

Sure enough, the sensors confirmed the warning, while the Warden called up the ship's tactical display. A formation of Swarm strikers, represented in red by the holoscreen, were headed straight for the glowing blue shadow-ketch.

He cursed his rashness - had he launched the observers one at a time, in different positions around the moon or around this immediate system, rather than all at once in one place, the Swarm would not have noticed.

But recrimination was pointless now - death was coming their way.

"Withdraw solar sails! Activate our propulsion! Prepare for in-system jump!"

The crew obeyed, and the shadow-ketch turned from gentle cruiser to streaking arrow in an instant. All pretence of stealth was gone as the Vorentine craft sped away from the planet's moon and into open space.

But the Swarm was nothing if not persistent. The striker formation, having been dispatched from the mothership, streaked onto their prey like predatory insects, their powerful drives propelling them faster than any native aircraft could ever hope to be. Slinging around the curvature of the moon, they homed in onto their quarry.

Yet the Vorentine scout-ship also had advanced technology and speed on its side. Executing a flawless loop to the other-side of the solitary moon, as far away from the mothership as possible, it streaked into the void, the engines flaring from blue to purple as it made its escape at incredible speed, a silver-purple comet shooting away from the dark gnats of the Swarm.

Soon enough, the vessel was in open space. But so were their pursuers.

"They are upon us!"

"Activate point defences! Cycle up gate generation!"

The small array of point-defence turrets came online, sending streaks of blue plasma at the Swarm attackers. Two that had sped ahead of the main group were destroyed instantly, the oxygen flaring in fireballs that vanished within a second in the airless black.

But the others were following close behind.

At that point they began to open fire. Green-coloured plasma streaked through the vacuum, flaring up the shadow-ketch's shields.

The Warden knew his vessel was no war cruiser or dromon - the shields would not stand up to such punishment for long.

"Gate generation complete! Preparing for jump!"

The simmering portal of energy that had been generated into reality by the craft's jump system crackled into being right in front of the prow. Within a second of it appearing, the Vorentine vessel shot into the portal, which closed behind with a flash.

The Attackers, incensed by their prey's escape, broke off.

* * *

At the farthest reaches of this solar system, beyond the furthest of the outer gas planets, beyond even the belt of ice, rock and dwarf planets that marked the farthest border, there was utter stillness.

Until another shining, crackling portal opened.

The shadow-ketch shot out of it like a silver dart. In less than a second afterward, the portal disappeared.

The Rangers had just made it into the gate - they thanked the gods that the hull had only suffered minor damage.

But this escape was only temporary - the engines would have to charge up again for a jump out of this system. There was every chance the Swarm had already traced their escape.

Once again, however, fate swiftly dispensed with their assumptions.

The Warden was just receiving the last details of the damage report - thanking Voren and Verix, the twin-suns and almighty gods of his race's home system, for protecting his vessel this day. It was through them alone that the damage was nowhere near as serious as it could have been.

It was that same young Ranger and the sensors station who gave the next report - with great difficulty.

"Brother-Warden...the hiveship...I cannot say..."

"Just tell me what you see," the Warden replied, subtly allowing for impatience to seep into his thoughts. He was still exhausted from their escape from certain death, and thus was in no mood for hesitation.

This was enough for the subordinate Ranger to simply turn and face him, and get to the point.

"The hiveship has been destroyed. From the inside!"

The Ranger had been using the vessel's systems to scan the Swarm mothership at maximum range - the rangescopes were just able to pick up the image of the hiveship being present at one moment, before suddenly disappearing in a brilliant flash.

"Scans indicate high levels of radiation," the Ranger had turned back to his console. "Consistent with detonations of the native nuclear warheads."

The whole cockpit fell into silence. There were no words to be said that were worthy of what was being seen now.

This was unprecedented. No-one could have imagined this to be possible. Yet the facts from this latest observation were all too clear.

The humans had destroyed the main hiveship. Without it, the Swarm's forces on this world would fall into disarray - their ships would lose power, and whatever remained of their ground forces would be stranded, their process of devouring the planet halted in its tracks. In less than a single rotation of that primitive world, the tides of fortune had been reversed.

The Swarm had been defeated...by such primitives...where so many others had failed.

Such a revelation had to be known. The Warden knew what to do.

"Process all data - make sure everything we have seen this day is secure. Then prepare another gate. We make for the Sanctuary."

The orders were followed to the letter. It was not long before another shimmering gate appeared, and the Shadow-Ketch vanished gracefully into it.

With it went the revelation of the victory won today - one that would change the galaxy forever.

 **A/N: For all those who enjoyed Mind of the Locusts, thank you for your patience. I hope you like what you see of this Prologue! Please review!**


	2. Chapter 1: The Battle of Belfast

**Chapter One: The Battle of Belfast**

 **Belfast, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom**

 **July 4, 1996**

 **UK Aerial Counter-attack, Operation: JOLLY ROGER**

Above the Irish sea, a shadow of death crept forward.

The shadow darkened the waters beneath it, blotting out the sun. The sea was also shaken and chopped, disturbed and roiled in churning waves by the enormous gravity projected by the shadow's owner, while the earth shook wherever it moved.

Birds fled before it, letting off cries of danger as they flew off in great formations as far away as they could. Beneath the waves, schooling fish scattered in panic. Like every creature on this planet, they knew what was coming.

This vast shadow was cast by one of the massive craft that had come to be feared the world over. It was a single disc-shaped monolith, appearing smooth from afar save for the blocky tower and indentation at the prow. Yet up close one would have been able to see a multitude of launch bays, power lanes, hangars and other devices beyond human conception.

Every human on this planet, however, knew well the power of the weapon that lay in the bowels of the ship - a terrible device concealed by the armoured blast doors that made up the dome right in the eye of the central disc on the underside. When these doors opened again, the cascade beam would be unleashed once more - those beneath it would be bathed in yet another firestorm.

A city destroyer, travelling to the next massacre.

This particular ship had already left a trail of destruction in its wake across England - first London, then Birmingham and Liverpool had fallen to its beam of cleansing fire. Whatever had not been destroyed through that method had been seen to by the gnat-like swarms of attackers that poured from the giant vessel's launch bays; with clouds of these lethal little ships blotting out the sky and choking the land like a biblical plague.

The attackers had targeted everything from military bases to defenceless convoys of refugees from the cities; these had carried both civilian and soldier, wounded and healthy, young and old, all piled onto any vehicle they had been able to board. Any innocence that these refugees might have possessed counted for nothing - for the invaders showed no mercy as the destroyer cruised unchallenged across the British Isles.

Now it was headed for Ireland. The first target: Belfast, on the north-eastern coast.

Once more, resistance would be attempted in the face of the alien onslaught, though every previous attempt had failed; air strikes and conventional missile barrages, from ships, submarines and land-based batteries alike, had consistently failed to penetrate the alien shields.

The battles over Europe had been no exception to that of the rest of the world - in all cases they had ended in a one-sided rout of all human forces.

The RAF had suffered badly, along with the French and German air forces and all other militaries on the continent. NATO bases in Europe had been the first to be attacked _en masse_ immediately after the first strike on the cities. The Paris city destroyer, following its destruction of the French capital, had remorselessly moved on to Brussels and incinerated the alliance's main headquarters. Meanwhile, attacker swarms had overwhelmed nearly all military bases in Western Europe.

Due to the density of the United Kingdom's population in such a small country - and the difficulty in evacuating that population - the British government had avoided any use of its own nuclear arsenal. The French government had followed suit and now the SSBNs (nuclear missile submarines) of both countries were hiding in the arctic circle, together with Russian and US Navy SSBNs in a vast nuclear wolf-pack, their warheads waiting to be unleashed only as a last resort.

This decision was made concrete by the news of the failed American nuclear attack on a City Destroyer over Houston, and the nuclear missile launches Russia and China had attempted against the alien threat. In all of those attempts, the ICBMs of those two great eastern powers had either detonated against the destroyers' shields with no effect, or had been shot out of the sky.

Following that, the aliens had traced the source of the launches and set about destroying the great missile silos in Siberia and Inner Mongolia, hamstringing the mighty nuclear arsenals of the two former communist superpowers. Both nations paid the price for failing to heed President Whitmore's warning not to use their nuclear weapons unless the Houston strike was successful.

Much of what remained of humanity's nuclear arsenal was now hidden beneath the waves aboard the missile submarines, all of which kept a low profile.

Thus the aliens continued their advance unchallenged across the British Isles. Having already unleashed three waves of fiery destruction, they now made ready for their fourth cleansing.

Yet on the human side, there was talk of a new plan. It was broadcast as little as possible, known only to a few. But the world's militaries were co-ordinating once more, gathering what was left of humanity's strength, ready to intercept the monstrous ships as they approached their next targets.

The final battle was approaching. Its outcome would decide the survival of the human race - and life on Earth itself.

It would be a battle fought across the world. Belfast would be just one battlefield among many.

The city made ready for war.

* * *

The city had known war before - but not like this.

Like the rest of the United Kingdom, Belfast had experienced the horrors of the Blitz during the Second World War - though the bombing had never been as intense as it had been over London, or other British cities such as Coventry or Liverpool. Still, after surviving that experience the city had endured another conflict - the roots of which ran much closer to home.

Throughout the height of the Troubles that lasted from the late 1960s to their sudden conclusion a mere two days ago, car bombs and running gun battles had been a fact of life for the people of Belfast. Life had continued on as normal as best it could. But the capital of Ulster, along with the rest of what had once been called Ireland's 'prosperity province' had been at the centre of the violence that had gripped Ireland and England for decades.

By the standards of global war, the Troubles had been a relatively low-level conflict. But people had still been killed and maimed - and as in all civil wars, many had been innocent and all parties involved had their hands stained in the process.

Many who lived through those times had lost all hope of an end to the bitter conflict. In spite of a gradual de-escalation and peace talks that had occurred in the years previous - sponsored by the young president of the United States of America - an end to the violence had still been elusive.

Thus, it was completely unexpected that all those who had been fighting each other on the streets of Belfast and in the Irish countryside were brought together by an even greater war - one on which the survival of all of humanity rested.

The common enemy that had united humanity, however, had simply never been expected.

Corporal Chris Stanton, of D Squadron SAS, certainly never expected any of what he'd seen these past few days, anymore than the rest of the planet. As he rode through the streets of Belfast in the clanking APC, he found himself again pondering everything that had happened, still pinching himself to check this wasn't all some sick dream.

He and the others of his troop had been on routine deployment in Northern Ireland when the first ships arrived. They'd listened to the news, first in wonder then in horror. They had gone through hell checking for news of loved ones after London was hit; Chris, an East Londoner himself, still had no news of his parents and sister.

 _Probably no use checking...they're gone, dead and burned..._

 _No. None of that. Switch back on._

His mind cleared. Everyone around him had suffered losses of some form or another in the past couple days - no use dwelling on his own. _Someone always had it worse._

Today, he wanted to make sure it was the bastards who'd burned his city and family were the ones who had it worse.

He saw that same determination in the eyes of all those around him. For everyone who would be fighting today, this was personal. He saw it in the eyes of Lance-Corporal Matt "Geordie" Sharp, his closest comrade in the troop sitting right next to him. His face was calm, but Chris knew his best mate well enough to know that right now, he was seething with rage, his eyes burning with it as they focused squarely on the cramped floor of the APC.

Geordie had just yesterday heard of the attack on Manchester. Though the City Destroyer had not unleashed its terrifying beam onto his hometown, the city had not escaped the attention of the plague-like attacker swarms. The whole Manchester area had been repeatedly strafed with their green plasma, wiping out almost all civilians who had failed to get out in time - or else had just stubbornly refused to leave their homes.

Geordie's family had being among them. The news he'd gotten had said it all - his parents, brothers and grandparents had all been consumed in the plasma fires.

All around him, he saw that same cold fury, that unforgiving desire for vengeance. He saw it in Private Duncan Baxter, the brawny Scot whose brother - an RAF ground crew mechanic - had perished during one of the many attacks on the airbases.

He saw it in Lance-Corporal Peter "Taff" Hughes, the doom-merchant of the troop, whose brother had gone down with HMS _Ark Royal_ , flagship of the Royal Navy. The carrier had launched its Harrier compliment from the Channel against the aliens during the first counter-attack - but the same outcome seen across the world repeated itself in England. The Harriers had been massacred, before the attackers tracked down and strafed _Ark Royal_ , along with her surface escorts. All hands were lost with her.

He saw it in Private Doug Hatton, who like Chris was an East Londoner. His whole family was likely also to be dead.

It was also there in Lance-Corporal Mark Warner, the troop's main Stinger operator and an Australian on secondment from his own country's SAS. He'd had relatives in Perth, which had been burned by a City Destroyer during the third wave. He still had no news on them, though Australia had suffered lightly from the aliens compared to the rest of the planet.

He could even see it in the eyes of Troop Sergeant Gary Holmes, a tough northerner from Lancashire. He'd definitely suffered the past couple days. He'd had friends in Birmingham. Manchester too. The north of England, like the rest of the country, had lived in fear of the Attacker swarms.

Make no mistake. If the alien shields could be brought down, then the scumbags hiding behind them would be made to pay for everything they'd done.

"Right lads, we're here!" That was the driver of the APC. "Out you get!"

The SAS men needed no encouragement. The rear doors opened and they piled out of the vehicle - an old Humber Pig, hastily procured from storage along with many other mothballed vehicles to provide the extensive logistics needed for the defence of Belfast. The Pig had been retired only a few years ago, but many other vehicles in the British Army had been expended, so whatever was available was used.

The Pig had been a common sight on the streets of Belfast in the past couple decades and its appearance - a stout, robust body with a protruding bonnet like an armoured snout - had become synonymous with the British Army in Northern Ireland during the worst of the Troubles. Chris remembered these carriers well from his previous tours in Ireland - and whenever he'd seen them had found himself thinking what it would be like to live here, with those things rumbling past your house and everything else going on.

Thus, there were more than enough in storage with both the British Army and Royal Ulster Constabulary to be put to good use.

Earlier versions had been designed as light vehicles - but the model that Chris and his comrades had been driven in was a Mark II, which had been up-armoured to counter the bullets and RPGs of the IRA. In addition, the front had been reinforced with heavy-duty steel 'bull bars', which enabled the Pig to ram through the barricades frequently erected on the streets of Londonderry and Belfast.

As a vehicle, it had been designed for the Troubles and was a symbol of that conflict - now this Pig was contributing to the defence of this city and all its people.

It was a clanking, noisy old wagon, and cramped too. Designed to fit only six passengers, the seven-man SAS team had been forced to make do and squeeze in. Chris wasn't sorry to get out of it.

They'd been dropped off at a warehouse in Holywood, a suburb located in the north-east of the city, directly facing Belfast Lough. The local commanders had calculated that this was an ideal location to set up a Stinger position. Chris's team was armed with two of the shoulder-mounted missile launchers, and would base themselves here.

They would not be alone. Already a Rapier missile battery was positioned on the roof of the warehouse, and Chris could see other Rapier positions around the area - in the open in the nearby car parks and football pitches, or tucked inside the clusters of detached and back-to-back houses in the suburb.

Nor would it just be the British Army helping out here. As Chris and his comrades stretched their legs from the ride in the Pig, an Alvis Saracen - another veteran APC from the troubles - pulled up at the same warehouse, together with a white van. This six-wheeled vehicle could carry nine passengers - more than the Pig - but it was not carrying British soldiers.

The men who piled out of the Saracen were mostly dressed in civilian attire, with the odd camo-jacket - though nearly all of them wore balaclavas. They were armed with a scattered variety of weapons - Kalashnikovs, hand-guns, Uzis, AR-15s - basically anything and everything the organisation they were affiliated with had been able to get their hands on in past years.

"Never thought we'd be fighting together with those bastards..." Taffy muttered.

Chris couldn't have imagined it either. But then, who would ever have imagined an alien invasion to begin with?

The leader of the armed men quick-stepped towards Sergeant Holmes, his face neutral. The Troop Sergeant's expression was just as unreadable.

"Eoin O'Shea," the man introduced himself curtly with a distinctive Ulster accent, "Provisional Irish Republican Army. Take it your lads are ready?"

Holmes replied with an equally curt nod. "You ought to know by now - my lads are always ready."

O'Shea smirked. "We've caught your lot when you're _not_ ready often enough."

Chris saw Geordie bristle at this, but he touched his comrade's arm, restraining him. The Manchester lad had a short fuse - it was always a good idea to keep it in check.

Holmes took the IRA man's snark in stride.

"We've done the same to _you_ often enough." He returned the smirk. "So let's call it even for today, eh?"

O'Shea nodded. "My lads'll take position on the south side of this warehouse here. You fine with the north?"

"You've got the MANPADS then?"

"Aye." O'Shea gestured to a couple of his men, who were busy unloading ordnance from the white van. This largely included what were unmistakably portable SAM launchers, along with the missiles they fired.

Chris recognised the type instantly. They were Russian-designed and produced Strela-2 man-portable SAM launchers (MANPADS), known better by their NATO reporting name - SA-7. Capable of launching anti-aircraft missiles with infra-red homing warheads, these weapons had been as heavily produced and widely exported by the former Soviet Union as the Kalashnikov rifle, serving in conflicts across the world.

The weapon itself had been in production since 1968 - production that continued after the fall of communism in Russia, as well as in China under license. Still, the lethality of the Strela was not to be underestimated. Chris knew that during the Gulf War a heavily armed US AC-130 Spectre gunship had been brought down by one such missile, during the fighting at Khafji.

Today, greater expectations would be place on the weapon. Expectations that had to be met.

There had been rumours circulating that the Provisional IRA had acquired SA-7s since the late '80s. Following the collapse of the USSR, the black market had become chock full of them, and the IRA had stepped up their procurement efforts. Shooting down one of the many army and police helicopters that roamed the skies of Ulster would have been a major coup for them.

Now, these weapons would be used together with the Stinger and Blowpipe MANPADs of the British Army. Chris's troop carried two examples of the former - and he and Mark were the troop's two stinger operators. Other Stinger-armed SAS teams were taking position across the city at that very moment.

"We're all set," O'Shea continued. "We'll cover the south side, you'll take the north. We should have the whole of this harbour covered - along with everyone else."

Holmes nodded. "Let's get to it then."

Thus the former adversaries deployed to their positions, each covering the other. Together, they would form a short-range SAM battery on this warehouse - one of many scattered throughout the city. Once O'Shea's men unloaded their own SAMs from the van, the SAS soon set about retrieving their own lethal Stinger missiles from the bowels of the same vehicle.

The MANPADS were key to the air defence of this city - so many of the heavier SAM launchers had been destroyed in running battles with the invaders these past two days. Chris considered it a miracle there were any left to support the shoulder-firing boys like himself, positioned across the city on rooftops, towers and concealed street corners.

Alongside the many MANPAD teams, additional Rapier missile batteries were also deployed across Belfast, the air defence specialists of the Royal Artillery and Royal Marines ready for action. As Chris and his comrades took position on the north roof of the warehouse, he looked out over the city to see dozens of Rapier batteries stationed on other rooftops, in street corners, and even on the decks of merchant ships still in the harbour. The current look of the Belfast skyline made him think of a giant rocket-pad from some old B-flick.

There were more advanced SAMs in Belfast that day, he knew. The Yanks who'd survived the attacks on their bases in the UK had been able to retrieve a few of their Patriot systems - these were mostly deployed in concealed positions throughout the outskirts. Together with the Rapiers, Chris could also see the barrels of anti-aircraft guns stationed across the other rooftops - mostly twin barrelled Oerlikons.

The city's air defence was not limited to land-based missile and gun batteries, either. Chris turned his gaze to the harbour, and the flotilla of navy warships gathered within the confines of Belfast Lough, as well as outside its vast mouth.

There was a Royal Navy Type 42 destroyer at the mouth of the Lough, with a Type 22 frigate trailing behind it. This formation - known as 'Type 64' - had been first deployed to great effect during the Falklands War. The Type 42's long-range Sea Dart missiles would be able to take down aerial targets further out, while the Type 22 would cover the destroyer against low-flying attackers at short-range, using its Sea Wolf point-defence missiles.

In addition, the systems and missiles of both of these ships had been upgraded since the war with Argentina in 1982. Now, their missiles were primed and ready for battle once more. Three such 'Type 64' pairs waited at the mouth of the Lough - though Chris could only see one.

In any case, as the outermost air defence vessels, the SAS trooper knew they would be sacrificial lambs - juicy targets to draw the aliens in. The same was true of the other warships in the Lough - though they had the luxury of being further within its protective havens.

These included other Type 22s as well as the more modern Type 23 frigates - their Sea Wolf launchers primed and ready. There was also the old Assault ship HMS Fearless - another Falklands veteran - that had been refitted with an array of flak guns, converted into a huge floating AA battery. Yet there were other warships not of the Royal Navy.

Proudly flying the star-spangled banner, a single _Ticonderoga_ -class cruiser, the USS _Bunker Hill_ , waited at her position in the Lough. Her RIM-67 surface-to-air missiles, fired from her eight-cell Mark 41 Vertical Launch System, would provide much-needed firepower to the Belfast air-defences. The vessel was thirteen years old - but Chris hoped the ship's weapons would be luckier than its age.

Alongside the mighty American cruiser was a single _Arleigh Burke_ -class destroyer, USS _Carney_. By contrast, this ship was only a few months into its commission. Chris knew from experience that new equipment wasn't always reliable - especially if it hadn't been tried and tested. Still, both US Navy ships were fitted with the famed Aegis defence system - which hopefully would prove its worth.

Other foreign ships included the lone French frigate _Cassard_ , armed with a license-built version of the _Bunker Hill_ 's air-defence missiles. There was also a _Bremen_ -class frigate of the German _Bundesmarine_ , armed with short-range Sea Sparrows - another sign of how the old conflicts were now so far away in the face of an alien threat.

There was one final foreign navy whose presence indicated this fact even more. Chris could never have imagined fighting alongside them just over a decade ago, when he'd been stationed as part of the NATO force in West Germany.

In the middle of the Lough lurked the largest of the warships present - a single nuclear-powered _Kirov_ -class battlecruiser, _Admiral Nakhimov_ of the Russian Navy. Alongside her was the only relatively smaller _Slava_ -class missile cruiser, _Marshal Ustinov_ ; conventionally powered, though like her nuclear counterpart still heavily armed.

Both of these vessels had been on their way to a goodwill visit to the Portsmouth on July 2nd - and they had both been extremely lucky to make it to the safety of Belfast harbour. As the pride of the former Soviet Northern Fleet, these cruisers were both suitably impressive, and dominated the view of the Lough.

Chris knew that appearances were deceptive, however. The aftermath of the Soviet collapse had not been kind on their hulls and superstructure, which showed signs of degradation. The Russian Navy had been short of funds and spare parts for years - even before the invasion, it had required a great effort on their part to get these two Cold War-era leviathans ready for a goodwill tour.

When the Russian cruisers had finally arrived in Belfast after a herculean journey around devastated Britain, they had been barely capable of moving - they had to be towed into the Lough by tugs. The _Nakhimov_ was now rendered motionless altogether - its reactor had been shut down and removed with considerable effort due to risk of detonation by enemy fire.

Still, motion would not matter in this battle. The Rear-Admiral who commanded both ships had agreed that they should serve as stationary SAM batteries.

In this, they were well equipped - the _Nakhimov_ and _Ustinov_ were both armed with S-300F long-range SAMs, a naval version of Russia's most powerful air defence system. The S-300 was also the longest-range AA missile in Belfast defences - a weapon that would prove crucial to the battle plan.

Taken all together, Beflast had been transformed into one huge flak trap; in its streets, in its buildings, in its harbour, in its Lough. Corporal Chris Stanton, his comrades and their two Stinger launchers were but one tiny part of this great trap.

It was a trap that had to work.

* * *

The City Destroyer cruised onward, towards the next nest of vermin to be burned away.

Within its fortified command centre, the Navigator oversaw all. One of many throughout the hive fleet, one each stationed aboard a Destroyer craft, all answering to the Master Navigator aboard the main hiveship. Beneath them were the commanders, those of the Protector caste. Beneath them, the multitudes of warriors and drones.

Yet all were one in the Swarm. The Navigators were no more rulers of this Hive Fleet than individual brain cells were rulers of a single body. The Hive Mind united them all, as one unstoppable army that had laid waste to worlds.

The Navigator hung from its position in the command centre - its massive head pulsated with psychic energy as it sent commands throughout the local hive mind.

The creature's shrivelled limbs twitched spastically as it hung in mid-air. Pairs of its tentacles cycled across the holographic controls of the command centre, while others remained plugged into the organic power sockets above, uniting the Navigator with the ship it commanded in near-permanent union. The single tiny pair of regressive eyes regarded the tactical displays, above a small, toothed mouth that opened periodically as its owner took rasping breaths,.

There was no real need for those eyes - they had regressed beyond practical use among the Navigator caste. The Navigator saw the world through its advanced psychic senses, and through the systems of the ship it was fused with. The cameras and surveillance drones gave the Navigator hundreds of artificial eyes, each giving so many views inside and outside the enormous craft.

For a time, it had seen nothing but boundless ocean. Now, it could see a green sliver of coastline on the horizon - and the distinct form of native buildings, clustered together in another of their sprawling cities, a foul grey nest vomited across an otherwise rich and green landscape, polluting and rotting what the Swarm needed like a fungus.

That nest needed to be burned, like all the others. The Swarm needed such rich, fertile land, with all the food and riches it held.

Secure within the great tower at the front of the vessel, the Navigator once more issued a minor course-correction, ensuring the shortest-possible route to the target - a sprawling nest located on the north-eastern edge of the western-most island in the pitiful archipelago that this Destroyer had ravaged over the past few rotations.

The Navigator of this vessel had begun the assault at the same time as the rest of the Swarm - with the destruction of the single largest nest in these islands, located on the larger eastern isle. That destruction had reduced the vermin population considerably in this area, but it was still not at the lowest levels deemed acceptable for colonisation to begin.

So two more cities had been burned. Now this one would follow.

According to intercepted native signals and the Destroyer's reconnaissance pickets, the next target had become a focal point of resistance, as the native vermin seemed to be gathering their forces in many different places across the planet. Clearly a final strike was being planned.

The Swarm would meet the strike. Then the Vermin would be beaten, having spent the last of their strength. There was no outcome in which this final strike could bring them victory.

Victory would belong to the Swarm alone.

The Navigator was assured of this - it had met many native counter-attacks. None had been able to penetrate the Destroyer's shields. All had failed - and the vermin attackers wiped out. The same was true for all Destroyers.

So there was no reason to believe that the coming action would be anything other than routine, as the Navigator calmly directed the vessel closer to final victory.

* * *

"Here the bastard comes!"

Geordie Sharp's words echoed across the rooftop. Chris just simply focused his eye into the big scope of the Stinger launcher, focusing on the approaching leviathan in the sky. His face was covered by a gas-mask, designed to protect him from the smoke and other effects of a Stinger launch.

The size of a large city and shaped like a manhole cover, the alien Destroyer craft maintained its course to Belfast. For anyone who saw it the first time, the sheer size was mind-boggling - how a leviathan like that could stay airborne seemed incomprehensible. The thing was a product of an intelligence beyond humanity, alien and unnatural. To Chris, it looked like a huge approaching storm cloud - an unstoppable force of nature.

He prayed he was wrong. The whole troop maintained their cool as best they could, priming the Stingers for combat. The City Destroyer cruised closer, until it entered the maximum range of the _Nakhimov_ and _Ustinov_ 's missiles.

Any moment now, the first part of the battle plan would happen. It all depended on the signal from the Americans.

Everyone knew that signal had been received when from the middle of Belfast Lough, the Russian warships unleashed their long-range SAMs, the engines flaring like lanterns, leaving great clouds of smoke that drifted across the Lough.

The S-300F missiles rocketed through the sky like comets, leaving fiery trails behind them as they streaked towards the City Destroyer.

As the weapons neared their massive target, everyone prayed that the rumours were true - that a way had been found to lower the alien shields, that the mission to infiltrate the Mother Ship had succeeded, that the Americans were not making false claims.

As the warheads detonated against the unshielded hull, sending flaming, building sized chunks of hull-plate tumbling into the waters below, those prayers were answered.

The shields were down.

At the sight of the hits, Geordie yelled out like a maniac.

"GOT THE FUUCKERR!"

Chris fist-pumped even as he kept hold of the Stinger, letting out a cry of his own.

"HOT SHIT! RIGHT IN THE EYE!"

The rest of the troop let out their own woops, together with the IRA militia and artillerists manning the Rapier, before Troop Sergeant Holmes quelled them all.

" _Pack it in! We've not won this yet!"_

Following the Russian success, the USS _Bunker Hill_ unleashed her Aegis guided SAMs. These were joined by the Sea Darts of the Type 42s, then the land-based Patriots. Soon the sky was filled with missile trails, rising up to strike the unshielded foe.

The giant saucer was wreathed with explosions. In positions across the city, more cheering could be heard, joining with the roars and hisses of the missiles, the echoing booms of warheads finding their mark. The great orchestra of sound was a herald for the storm to come.

The Battle of Belfast had begun.

* * *

The Navigator let out a hiss of irritation from its small, toothed mouth as it struggled to process the new information. The screens were still flickering through some form of distortion - a system error that had appeared only minutes ago.

All Navigators aboard all other Destroyers had reported the same error - it had been first dismissed as trivial but now it was becoming a serious problem. The crew under the Navigator's command confirmed the story through the Hive Mind - the shielding had been compromised across the whole Hive Fleet.

The natives had taken advantage of this - their weapons were for the first time causing damage, even if it was only superficial. The sound of their warheads detonating echoed and reverberated throughout the ship.

A few struck the outside of the control tower, lightly shaking the chamber and jolting the Navigator in its perch, snarling as it was riled.

This had to be dealt with until the shields could be restored. The Navigator again sent a message to the main Hiveship, co-ordinating with the Master of its kind aboard the greater vessel in orbit, as it cycled through the systems to locate the error.

Then, it sent a simple command across the local telepathic field, to the many warriors and striker pilots aboard the Destroyer.

 _Neutralise opposition in nest ahead._

As the command echoed through the hive, the Navigator inserted another tentacle into one of the many control sockets. Through this appendage, it sent another psychic command - and the great hangar doors of the destroyer opened.

On the many view screens, it saw the great clouds of attackers under its command issue from the hangars, ready for battle once more as they swarmed towards the narrow havens where the native missiles had been traced to.

They would not fail. They could not.

* * *

Chris suppressed a gulp as the locust-like clouds of Attackers drew closer to the Belfast Lough at incredible speed, swarming from the City Destroyer like enraged wasps from a shaken nest. They were coming in droves towards the city, ready to unleash hell.

 _It's all part of the plan_ , he kept telling himself. The attacker swarms needed to be lured into the Belfast flak trap, as far away from the City Destroyer as possible.

Of course, the generals always had their plans - and it was the soldiers who had to fight to survive.

The lightning-fast sting-ray Attackers swept over the Lough and then over the city port, the whines and whistles of their engines filling the air, their shrieking, high-pitched armament showering the ships and city below with green plasma.

The human warships in turn opened up with their closer-range weapons, along with the emplacements across the city. Hissing white contrails and black clouds of booming flak erupted across the great waterway and skyline.

" _Now's the time boys!_ "

Sergeant Holmes' words weren't needed - Chris had already painted one of the oncoming Attackers in his Stinger-sight. Whatever propulsion the aliens used for their ships still wasn't known - but it emitted heat just like any human power source. The targeting systems read positive and locked on to the enemy heat signature.

The Attacker he'd targeted was the nearest, headed straight for his troop's warehouse. Chris wasn't going to let him get any closer. He pulled the trigger.

The heat-seeking missile left the launcher with a cough, followed by the roar of the rocket-engine. Smoke swept over Chris and Geordie as this happened, but both were protected by their gas-masks.

Through the scope, Chris had gotten a good view of the attacker - included the dome of its cockpit.

He was now lucky enough to see that cockpit shattered as his missile struck it right in the face.

He grinned. The Attackers had lost their shields too.

 _"That's for Greenwich, motherfuckers!"_ He yelled as the Attacker spiralled downward in a ball of fire, proudly screaming the area of his birth.

Not invincible. Not immortal. They could be killed like any human aircraft or soldier - once they had no energy shields to hide behind.

For a brief, terrifying moment his celebration turned to panic as the Attacker spiralled down in flames towards his position.

But instead of crashing into the warehouse it barrelled overhead, dangerously low above the troop, before crashing and burning somewhere further into the city. The roaring of collapsing masonry and shattering concrete marked the crash - it must have destroyed a building somewhere.

At the same time, Mark had fired his own Stinger launcher, sending another Attacker plunging into the Lough. The militants in turn fired their SA-7s, scoring kills of their own. They were joined by Doug Hatton, who'd taken one of their spare SA-7 launchers.

The Rapier battery on the roof had also been firing, and Chris could hear so many other weapons opening up across the city, from heavy machine-guns to Patriot missiles - but he wasn't able to see the result of every single missile launch, or every flak burst. There was too much smoke from all the missiles that had been fired on this roof - not to mention the sound of the battle around him, so loud it felt like having needles pushed into his ears.

He couldn't possibly keep track of it all in the heat of battle, not while he had a job to do. All he could focus on was his own position, on this warehouse roof - so he was riveted on helping Geordie re-load the launcher so he could fire it again.

When the launcher was finally reloaded, Chris painted another, more distant ship in his scope - and fired again, hitting the bastard right in his engines.

The stricken Attacker screamed downward in a comet-tail of fire, crashing into the stern of one of the civilian container ships.

That cargo ship somehow survived - but Chris could see others hadn't. An orange mushroom cloud was still rising from somewhere at the mouth of the Lough - that had to be at least one of the Royal Navy destroyers. Even without their shields, the alien craft were still lethal. Immediately after his second launch, Chris was looked just in time to witness an even more catastrophic loss.

Several salvos of plasma struck the _Admiral Nakhimov_ as a cluster of alien fighters swept over her, just at the bow below the main launchers - Chris knew that was where the bloody ammo magazines must be. There still had to be tons of missiles and shells aboard the cruiser.

He was proved right.

A great pillar of roaring fire erupted from the bow section of the huge cruiser - the ship shuddered and let out deep structural groans before being engulfed by an even greater explosion which tore her clean in half, bow and aft ripped apart.

The SAS troop turned in shock from what they were doing as the sight of the explosion captured them. They were struck instantly by the deafening sound and resulting shockwave, sending even the burly Sergeant Holmes off his feet. The flash was blinding, like a new star being born.

As he and his comrades picked-themselves and looked on in open-mouthed horror, their ears ringing in pain, Chris thought of the fate of HMS _Hood_ at the hands of the _Bismarck_ during World War Two.

The same horrific scene was replayed now as the _Nakhimov_ 's stern and bow projected upwards, as the two halves quickly sank. Fires raged across the water as oil and ammunition ignited.

Chris only turned away when he saw what could only be the crewmembers, writhing in flames and hurling themselves into the water from the sinking ship.

He didn't want to think about how many had perished. He had to get back into action. He roared out an order, even though he couldn't hear himself over his ringing, damaged ears.

" _C'mon Geordie, get that bloody thing loaded!_ "

He pulled his comrade to his feet, gesturing wildly at the launcher. But before they could do anything, another explosion, this one on the roof itself, knocked him right on his backside, his head thudding onto the concrete.

Seconds later, Holmes barrelled in over him, roaring at the top of his lungs and wildly gesturing in another direction.

The smoke clouds from the roof explosion and the _Nakhimov'_ s demise swept over them. Chris choked and coughed on the cordite fumes and oily smoke. But then the ringing stopped - with a rush of air and sound, his hearing returned.

" _You heard me, you fucking piss-heads - get off the bloody roof! Let's go! GO!_ "

Chris could now hear the Sarge's words loud and clear, and wasn't about to argue. Mark, the loud-mouthed Australian, backed him up as he grabbed his own launcher and ran.

"You heard the Sarge, mates! Now would be a _very_ good time to leave!"

The SAS troopers sprinted towards the nearest fire-escape stairs, taking their Stinger launchers with them, their combat boots clanking on the metal. Close behind them were the IRA men - and Chris noticed that a few of them, including O'Shea, weren't following. They'd definitely had it.

He looked back over his shoulder, seeing the source of the explosion on the roof. The rapier launcher had taken a direct hit - now it was nothing but twisted molten metal, it's crew vaporised in the plasma strike. The missiles had also detonated when the plasma struck, though fortunately most of them had been fired off beforehand.

Chris knew that he and his mates were lucky to be alive.

Once they had all reached street-level, it was clear to Chris that they had to get away from the warehouse as soon as possible - the building was in flames, spewing noxious black smoke. More to the point, the aliens were sending more of their attack craft this way.

" _This way! Get to the bikes!_ "

The shout came from one of the IRA men. They'd brought a small fleet of motorbikes, some of which had been loaded into the white van that came with them, while others had already been pre-stocked in the warehouse.

The bikes had been concealed around the back of the warehouse in a side alley, and would now serve as getaway vehicles. There were eight in total - both civilian and military issue - more than enough to get the survivors out.

Chris immediately started for one of the bikes, along with Geordie.

"Give us some room Chris!" The Mancunian barked. "You know I'm the better driver!"

" _Up yours_..." Chris retorted. Nonetheless, Geordie got the driver's seat, while Chris was happy to take the passenger seat behind him. He made sure his Stinger launcher was secure on his back, before strapping himself in.

They wasted no time. Sergeant Holmes mounted one of the bikes, an IRA man with an RPG riding shotgun behind him.

The motorbike engines started with a roar. With the Sarge in the lead, they sped away, one by one, from the warehouse and out of the alley.

Geordie revved up his bike's engine with a furious whine, gunning like mad, while behind him Chris hung on for dear life.

At this point, he didn't even care that he wasn't wearing a crash helmet.

With a roar and whine of his engine and tyres, Geordie skidded the bike in a sharp turn out of the alley. He and the other bikers winded like mad through the side streets, until they finally broke out of the small cluster of warehouses. Soon they found themselves on the broad, open route of one of the city's main roads - the A2, also called Belfast Road.

The highway was practically empty of traffic, save for small convoys that continued to make much-needed supply runs to troops scattered throughout the city. Their bravery in the face of overwhelming enemy air power was incredible - the convoy vehicles dashed along the roads, defying all odds to deliver much-needed ammunition and equipment.

Across this road lay the parish of Holywood proper - with its rows of suburban houses, ancient churches and priories. It was also the site of many other missile batteries and anti-aircraft gun emplacements, fortified for attack.

As such, the whole area was a prime target - the alien attackers were swarming the parish, strafing it repeatedly. The whole of Holywood seemed to be in flames, marked with violent explosions as plasma met the SAM batteries and their ammunition stores.

In short, it was not where the SAS troop and their allies wanted to be. They continued to speed along the main road, further towards the city centre.

Of course, the A2 was not a good place to be either. Chris felt the howling wind rush over him, tearing at his fatigues and forcing his head down, clinging on to the bike and Geordie's backside as they screamed down the motorway at full speed.

Just then, he caught the sight of one of the supply convoys going the other way, on the opposite carriageway. Four small military trucks, and two commandeered civilian vans.

They must have been carrying ammunition - there was no other way they could have exploded so violently as two alien Attackers strafed the convoy with plasma, scoring direct hits on the convoy.

The trucks were thrown into the air like toys - one somersaulted twice over the centre of the road, before crashing onto the carriageway the soldiers' motorcycles were using in a mess of flaming wreckage, right in front of Chris and Geordie's bike.

Geordie violently swerved the motorcycle out of the way just in time, the tyres and engine screeching as a piece of red-hot metal narrowly missed Chris's head.

As the troop sped on, the supply convoy was completely obliterated behind them - the sound of the explosions assaulted their ears, the smell of explosive was in the air, while the heat from the roaring fireballs washed over SAS trooper and IRA militant alike.

Chris swore at the top of his lungs. Making sure he was still strapped on, he un-shouldered his 203 rifle. Aiming as best he could, he fired at the nearest Attacker that swept over their heads.

There was not a chance in hell that he would bring it down - but his comrades might join in firing on his target, causing more damage. Besides, he'd be damned if he didn't at least scratch the bastard's paint.

 _"We gotta get out of this shit lads!"_ the Sarge bellowed over the radio, as the Attackers swept back for another pass. _"The city airport's the nearest rally point - let's go!"_

Belfast had two airports; the larger Belfast International which was located in the west of the city, and Belfast City. The latter, a smaller single runway airport, mostly dealt with UK and Republic of Ireland national flights.

In this battle, however, it was a key strong point, located just south-west of where the SAS troop's first position had been in Holywood. Many SAM and Triple-A batteries were set up there, along with plenty of troops defending them. Chris knew it made sense that his troop would be pulled back to that airport.

If this had been peaceful times, the bikers would have proceeded along the A2 further to the south-west, until taking a turn right of the main road into the car park at the airport entrance. That day on July 4th, 1996, however, was anything but peaceful. Even now, the alien Attackers were making their next strafing run along the main road, throwing up columns of fire, shrapnel, dust and asphalt.

Chris knew they had to get the hell off the A2 as soon as possible - that meant taking the first junction they came too to the left, which in turn would take them across a bridge over the main road. They would then pass through a retail park of shopping centres, until they reached the very foot of the runway at Belfast City Airport, at the very edge of the airport grounds.

The bikes gunned it to that junction, Sergeant Holmes in the lead. Yet another Attacker made a pass over the impromptu bike squadron, spitting green energy. Chris saw the IRA gunman on the back of Holmes' bike raise the RPG-7 he was toting. Taking a hasty aim, he fired at the oncoming alien ship.

The RPG round, against all odds, managed to strike the Attacker on its starboard pincer. This would never have been enough to bring the craft down, but it was clearly damaged. It broke off, deterred by the unexpected retaliation.

The bikes dashed into the junction on the left, just near a local health club. Swinging around with the U-turn in the road, they then dashed across the small bridge that spanned the A2. By a miracle, all of the bikes made it to the other side before two more Attackers raked the bridge with plasma, causing it to collapse across the motorway in a roaring shower of metal and concrete.

Chris glanced over his shoulder at the destruction behind him, wheezing in shock. How none of his troop had been killed on this damned A-road, God only knew. The bikes were small targets, but there were still a lot of those manta-like Attackers in the air.

Of course, that meant that command's plan was working - enough of the attackers had been drawn away from the City Destroyer. But that didn't make Chris's life easier.

The troop sped on, roaring through the retail district. To their right, Chris could see a vast open car park of a Sainsbury's supermarket; there were radar-directed, automated twin-barrelled Oerlikon GDF anti-aircraft guns in both the car park and on the roof of the supermarket.

These guns were firing away, filling the sky with flak. One of the alien craft flew right into the flak bursts, which sent it plunging down in flames. Confident that the guns would cover them, the troop passed through the car park.

This turned out to be a bad move - the Attackers could shoot back. A trio of the manta-ray craft dive-bombed the Sainsbury's area, strafing as they went. Chris and Geordie were just riding past the petrol station attached to the supermarket when the first plasma struck.

The petrol station blew up instantly with a great thunderclap in a violent fireball, consuming the supermarket with it as that building was also blown apart by more plasma raining down.

 _"FUCK!"_

Geordie swore at the top of his voice, revving the engine like mad as he and Chris both feeling the searing heat wash over them, flaming petrol raining down around them. Chris's fatigues were on fire several places, and he swatted to put himself out.

 _"My bloody eyebrows!"_

Fortunately, they suffered no other harm. But as the bikes sped away, Chris saw that not everyone had been lucky.

Trooper Doug Hatton had been riding shotgun with one of the IRA men - now his bike was nowhere to be seen, lost in the flames. As the rest of the troop assembled safely, on the green at the foot of the runway, they all knew he wouldn't be joining them.

There was no time to mourn - they had to reach friendly headquarters near the airport control tower and terminal buildings as soon as possible. That meant riding all the way down the runway, right out in the open.

Even as they set off for that final, desperate dash, Chris could hear the damned whines of the attackers as they closed in on their prey, like hornets swarming in the air.

They knew they had little chance - there was no cover on the tarmac of the runway, save for the scattered remains of destroyed, burning airliners further down the field. Until then, it was open ground.

The attackers would have a field day. Chris saw two of them directly in the sky ahead, swooping down towards the humans on their puny transports like falcons diving on mice.

This was where he would die.

As Trooper Chris Stanton closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable, he was jarred by a sudden explosion.

It wasn't on the ground. And there was more than one blast.

He looked up to see twin fireballs where the two Attackers had been, flaming fragments and wreckage raining down onto the runway. The bikers swerved violently to avoid it all.

Chris looked up - he'd thought the aliens had been brought down by another SAM or flak burst. Instead, he was rewarded by the sight of two Harriers - Sea Harrier FA2s, or FRS1s, he couldn't be sure - screaming over their heads, fresh from their kills.

Empty slots on their wings marked the Sidewinder missiles they had just fired, blasting the invaders from the sky.

Chris pumped his fist.

 _"Hot shit!"_ Geordie bellowed in triumph with him.

As he turned his head to see the whole of the sky - and saw the vast armada of jets of all types - Harriers, Hawks, Jaguars, Tornadoes, Canberras. Most incredible of all, Chris could see, right in the rear-centre of the formation, a flight of four delta-winged Avro Vulcans, their Rolls-Royce Olympus engines roaring in the sky, like a mighty god of war letting out a call to battle.

They flew together with Handley Page Victors - like the Vulcan, former nuclear bombers of V-force, Britain's primary nuclear deterrent during the Cold War until missile submarines took over. Both aircraft were now ancient, retired years ago. Yet enough airframes had survived to be brought out of storage, restored and flown into this, the great battle for human survival, for planet Earth itself.

Besides these, there was a host of foreign aircraft - French Mirages and Super Etendards, Swedish Drakens, German Dornier Alpha Jets and so many others Chris could not identify. It was an armada of British and foreign jets alike, headed straight for the City Destroyer that was still advancing on the city.

As Trooper Chris Stanton watched them all, a grin swallowing his masked and balaclava-clad face, he knew that the plan had worked.

The alien quick fighters had been diverted, lured into attacking the ground positions throughout Belfast, as well as the ships in the Lough. They had lost a good deal of their number in the process, leaving their mother craft virtually unprotected in pursuing the distraction. The RAF, Fleet Air Arm and the other allied air forces now had a clear shot at the Destroyer, thanks to the Belfast flak trap.

Thanks to the men of Chris's troop, and so many others.

The alien Attackers had realised the distraction too late. The human aircraft were high in the sky - and caught between the ground positions and the oncoming air threat, for a moment they almost didn't seem to know which way to turn.

The cluster of Attackers closest to the airport, the same ones that had chased the SAS troop across the A2 to the airport, made their decision. They attempted to pursue the two Harriers which were now rejoining the attack on the Destroyer - but they were knocked out of the sky in quick succession by Rapier missiles and flak shells. Their hulls crashed to the ground, broken, burning and defeated.

However, not all would easy for the flyboys. More attackers were breaking off from the assault on Belfast, zooming up into the sky to confront the aerial armada of the insolent humans who had dared to outwit them.

The troop rode on, making full speed to the terminal. They passed armed soldiers of the British and Irish Army alike, marching along the runway area towards defensive positions at the main airport buildings.

There was no doubt they had been forced to fall back here too.

As he heard the cheers of these Allied troops for the SAS as they sped by, Chris felt something he hadn't in the past few days.

Hope. Hope that they could hurt these aliens, and hurt them good. That he and his fellow soldiers could prevail. That they could now fight.

That they could win.

 **Author's note: Part one of the Battle of Belfast. Part two will follow.**


	3. Chapter 2: Victory at Belfast

**Chapter Two – Victory at Belfast**

 **Belfast, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom**

 **July 4, 1996**

In the skies above the city of Belfast, the vast human air fleet closed with its target. The gargantuan City Destroyer was something impossible to miss – but every pilot involved in the attack made sure to keep their planes in attack formation and on track. Proper co-ordination, as well as concentration of firepower, would be the keys to victory in this battle.

Not all of the aircraft would be launching the attack in fixed formation, of course – this only applied to the bombers and strike aircraft. Their sole task was to deliver ordnance to the gigantic craft that loomed ever closer.

The escorting fighters were a different story. The Sea Harriers, Tornado fighters, Drakens and Mirages were already breaking formation to engage the swarms of Alien Attackers that were now swiftly abandoning their attack on the city to engage the human aircraft above them.

The human deception had clearly been exposed – the alien fighters knew they had been lured into an attack on the Belfast ground defences, away from their City Destroyer; a target that was now in the sights of the approaching bombers.

Yet despite their quick reaction, the aliens were changing direction too late – the bombers were too far and out of the invaders' reach, soaring towards their target at high-altitude. Meanwhile, humanity's various jet fighters streaked down from above to intercept and destroy the duped Attackers.

Within seconds, the opposing fighters clashed, duelling in one mighty dogfight above the Belfast skyline. Vapour trails from jet engines and missiles, streams of tracer from cannons, green flashes of alien plasma and the explosions of fallen combatants of both sides soon decorated the clear sky, as the fighters pursued one another in spheres of chaotic manoeuvres and desperate evasions.

The Sea Harriers, flown by expert fighter pilots (Harrier selection standards were always high), deftly manoeuvred amongst their foes, letting loose Sidewinder missiles whenever they achieved a lock. Supersonic Mirages and Drakens streaked to and fro, their sonic-booms echoing adding to the grim orchestra of the battle.

The human pilots had independent thought and decision-making on their side; they adapted their tactics with every turn and twist of combat, dodging plasma shots and duelling the invaders for supremacy of the skies. They coordinated amongst each other, maximising their efforts to bring down as many of the alien fighters as possible.

The Swarm had no such advantage. Their Hive Mind did not allow for it. Had they been human pilots or commanders, they would have recognized that something was seriously wrong the moment their shields went down, and changed tactics.

Had they been capable of individual decision and innovation, there would have been no continued swarming of their enemy with greater numbers of Attackers; such direct methods simply incurred heavy casualties. The Attackers would have re-organised themselves into more flexible and disciplined formations, in order to better dodge enemy fire. Instead of blindly rushing the native defences and fighters, they would have bombarded them from afar, either by using the attackers in high-altitude attacks, or simply using the weapons on the City Destroyer, which weathered the human weaponry far better than its Attacker broods.

As no such individual innovation existed on the part of any their common pilots – and since their systems were still in disarray – the Swarm was slow to respond to these new circumstances.

Every human pilot interviewed after the battle's end stated that there was no change of tactics on the part of any of the alien Attacker pilots they faced, or even any visible attempt to acknowledge and compensate for the loss of their energy shields. The enemy continued to behave as they had done before; with the same single-minded, zealous determination to kill or be killed.

By contrast, the humans had learned fast in the past few days. The invaders paid the price for this.

Flowers of orange fire bloomed as scores of the now-vulnerable Attackers were brought down. Yet they were still lethal – now and then, human aircraft decorated the sky with their own explosions, as the green plasma could still find its lethal mark.

This spectacle in the air easily rivalled the plumes of black smoke from the many fires that burned on throughout the city of Belfast, or the bright lines of AA tracers and booming clouds of flak that had previously dominated the skies. Yet this could still be seen as the anti-aircraft artillery and SAM batteries continued to stitch the sky and any alien craft that entered their sight, while scoring further kills of their own.

However, the ground defences were obliged to reduce their fire, in order to avoid hitting friendly aircraft – while the human fighters were obliged to avoid designated 'flak zones', in order to allow the ack-ack gunners unobstructed and uninterrupted fire in these areas.

But it was the bombers that were the single most important element of the human battle-plan over Belfast, centred on the ancient Vulcans and Victors that screamed their arrival above the city. They carried the most potent ordnance – and the prime aiming point on the City Destroyer was the skyscraper-sized blocky fin located at what was designated as the prow of these vessels. This structure was now widely acknowledged to be the command centre of the vessel.

As such, it was the bombers' target – and they were not alone.

From their cockpits, the pilots could make out a great cluster of innumerable contrails streaking from the east; a sight that heralded a fleet of cruise missiles fired from ships further along the Irish coast, as well as from submarines hidden further out to sea, arrived over the battlefield after a flight of many hundreds of miles.

The arrival of these missiles looked almost like a fleet of comets, streaking from off-shore and through the atmosphere in fiery trails. Since cruise missiles flew subsonically, it was possible for observers on the ground to see them as they streaked towards the hovering alien leviathan.

With good enough binoculars, it was even possible to make out the shape and features of the missiles themselves, even their type. Most were American Tomahawks, though some Russian-made missiles, launched from that country's submarines, were also present in the great fleet of high explosive that now made contact with the invaders.

The missiles struck, their explosions chaining across the Destroyer's hull and command centre, as the bombers closed in.

The bomber pilots, so focused on their approach, did not notice the sickly green glow from newly-parting openings on the giant ship's underside; a tell-tale sign that its great launch bays were activating once more.

* * *

Across the massive hiveship, primitive warheads struck and detonated in quick succession. The native missile attack was well coordinated – it had arrived while nearly all the Attacker swarms were otherwise engaged.

Many of the long-range missiles struck the thick armoured shell of the command centre. The warheads of these weapons had much more explosive power than the previous missiles fired in this battle. Even more violent vibrations shook the Navigator's chamber. Sparks exploded in great fiery showers, erupting from bio-electric conduits as the damage reached the internal systems.

The Navigator snarled in anger, the needle-like teeth in its regressed mouth bared in fury, seething as foul saliva dripped down onto the floor below it.

It was not alone in its fury. Across the Hive Fleet, the same blunders were appearing; the ongoing system error caused by an unexpected native infiltration of the main hiveship, the absent shields, the critical losses inflicted on the Attacker swarms, the damage still being caused; the other Navigators relayed it all from their ships across and above this stubborn prey world.

Worst of all were the huge fleets of native aircraft, screaming towards Destroyers across this planet; aerial forces which should have been all but destroyed.

The Navigator of this vessel felt the anger of the whole Hive Mind, of the whole fleet, funnelled through its brain as one unified, unbearable howl of collective rage. Most of all, it felt the pain of its own badly-wounded brood.

The Swarm had been close to harvesting this delectable prey world. Now the Hive Fleet had been stung - when all resistance should have been ineffective and at this point, extinguished.

So many native aircraft had been destroyed in the past few days. So many nests had been burned away. Yet still they came in strength, for yet another strike; this time their efforts were not futile.

This time, they were causing damage. This time, they were beating the Swarm.

This Navigator's forces had not only been stung, but also deceived – baited into a useless and costly attack on the native ground defences, while the vermin began their own strike from the air. In the skies above this foul nest in the narrow bay, where so many warriors of the Swarm had fallen, they howled out their petulant frustration in the vast gestalt of the Hive Mind's alien consciousness.

The Navigator was compelled to answer that cry.

The Attacker swarms needed to focus solely on bringing down the native aircraft – the Navigator made that clear to them – but they continued to suffer losses and were still taking fire from the vermin ground defences, which even now covered the approach of their bombers.

The swarms needed support. The Navigator signalled for the hangars to launch all of the remaining reserve Attackers. Reinforcements were needed to compensate for the losses suffered, and to engage the newly-arrived bombers.

Then it stretched out another of its sinuous tentacles. The limb plugged into another socket, coated with conductive residues as the pulsating, oversized brain of the Navigator once more interfaced with the vessel's additional systems.

This time, it signalled the broods of ground warriors garrisoned aboard the vessel. There were Troop Transporter craft to spare on board. Those foul missile batteries needed to be destroyed, to relieve pressure from the Attacker swarms and to clear the way for the Destroyer.

A ground invasion was the best way to ensure this. The Attackers would be left free to focus all their efforts on the enemy aircraft, while the Destroyer's ground warriors would destroy the vermin anti-aircraft defences, which in turn would be forced to defend themselves on the ground.

When the Destroyer burned the nest, many warriors of the Swarm would still be present on the surface. This was not a concern – they existed only to serve the will of the Swarm. If their sacrifice was required to crush this resistance, so be it.

As mobilization alarms sounded through the ship, new swarms of Attackers poured from the re-opened launch bays. They were followed by the slower Troop Transport ships and Gunships that would clear the way for the landing warriors.

Meanwhile, the Navigator pulsed out another signal into the propulsion systems: _increase speed._

They had to move faster. They had to reach the point of firing soon – the Destroyer was still over the sea, and had not cleared the coast.

It could only move so fast – it would take time to reach the firing point. Until then, the warriors of the Swarm would have to clear the way; in the air and on the ground.

* * *

For what had seemed like ages now, Chris Stanton's world had been reduced to the sound of the motorcycle engine and the rushing of the wind across his body as he and Geordie sped along the runway of Belfast City Airport. The engines of the other bikes whined in the background, as the SAS troop and their IRA allies dashed along the runway, keeping to the cover of destroyed aircraft.

At least the aliens weren't firing at them now. Soon after the timely intervention by the Sea Harriers, the stingray-like attack craft seemed to have forgotten the humans on the ground altogether, focusing entirely on the newly-arrived air assault.

When Chris looked up from Geordie's back, he could see hundreds of the stingray-ships shooting up into the sky towards the bombers and fast-air jets in great unified streams, like foul black tentacles reaching up into the heavens, grasping at distant prey.

While the Attackers were still just trying to blindly swarm their enemy on an individual level, they were able to collectively change their tack; they did so with inhuman unison.

Even as flak, tracer-fire and SAMs continued to score the sky wherever the aliens flew, shooting a few of them down now and then, every single one of them fervently stayed the course, determined to reach the bombers. Not one of them turned back to attacking the ground defences.

Chris was stunned by how single-minded they were. If he didn't hate them with an absolute passion, he would have admired them. To him, these aliens seemed like a giant ant-hill from space more than anything else.

" _Fucking warrior ants_ …" he whispered as he observed the vast tendril-like clouds of alien ships. That was the only way to describe them. _A bloody-great big swarm of warrior ants, with crazy-advanced kit to boot._

He knew they would no longer be baited or fooled. Now, they would engage the primary air threat to their mother-craft. Nothing would distract them from that.

With that in mind, Chris was at a loss as to what use he and his comrades would be, in this phase of the battle.

The missile and triple-A batteries would continue to fire on any alien ship they saw – but the enemy would likely now all be flying beyond the effective altitude of shoulder-fired missiles. Even if they weren't, with so many allied jets in the air chasing the aliens, firing off Stingers or SA-7s into that shit could easily result in a blue-on-blue – friendly fire, in other words.

So if all of the Attackers were now focused on the flyboys, then it was basically all in the hands of the flyboys now. They were the ones whose efforts would matter. Chris and his fellow ground-pounders had been reduced to spectators in this battle – they'd ceased to be relevant.

Chris wasn't happy about that. It made him feel _vulnerable_ , _useless_ ; two things no SAS soldier, or any member of any Special Forces unit, would want to be. Still, he was no General – he'd played his intended part. If he and his SAS comrades were now expected by the higher-ups to just sit and twiddle their thumbs, then that was what they would do.

With Sergeant Holmes in the lead, the bikers arrived at the fortified control tower and terminal buildings. Belfast City was smaller than the city's main international airport – it had only opened for commercial flights in the early '80s.

Still, it was large enough to make it a major command post, rally point, staging and supply area for the defending forces. Even now, C-130s and other supply aircraft continued to land on the runway at great risk amidst the air battle, delivering much-needed supplies and reinforcements.

The airport buildings themselves were fortified. Anti-aircraft guns fixed to the terminal roofs continued to fire away with deafening shrieks and rattles, sending streams of bright tracers into the sky. Machine-gun and mortar positions dotted vital points, ready to envelop any enemy force that assaulted the airport. Tanks and armoured vehicles were stationed in defence, their turrets tracking back and forth. Soldiers marched to and from their positions, ready for action at any notice.

Sure enough, as the bikes pulled up at the fortified entrance to the squat control building – where the SAS had been ordered to retreat to – a section of British soldiers strode out to meet them.

Chris recognised their unit instantly – after all, he and Geordie had been part of it before graduating into the SAS together. Their proudly-worn maroon berets gave them away. They were men of 2 Para, or the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment.

As the SAS troop and IRA fighters dismounted, Sergeant Holmes was recognised by the ranking officer among the Paras here – Lieutenant Rose, the same officer who'd sent them to the warehouse before the fighting started.

"You're a welcome sight Sergeant," the late twenty-something Lieutenant breathed. "But I see you've had quite a hard time."

Holmes nodded slowly. The death of trooper Doug Hatton had reduced his troop to six. As for the IRA men, only four out of their original group of nine remained.

"Trooper Hatton is KIA sir. So is O'Shea, along with four of his lot. The Rapier battery was wasted too."

"All of them? You didn't see any escape that warehouse?"

"None sir; damn flying bastards were just too fast." He sent a globule of spit on the tarmac – Chris could see it was tinged red. "I'm just glad they're the flyboys' problem now."

The Lieutenant sighed.

"It seems to be that way. As far as we can tell they've completely lost interest in those of us with boots on the ground."

He gestured to the sky, which was now filled with flashes, contrails and the sounds of the war in the air. Sure enough, all of the alien attackers had turned their attentions to the flyboys – none of them were paying any more attention to the human positions in the burning city.

"They just moved on together like a school of fish. Intel and head-shed still reckons they're a hive; worker bees with laser guns and zero free-thinking. So if they've been ordered to go after the air attack they won't deviate."

Geordie spoke up, clearly agitated.

"So what; we just rest up and have a brew then sir?" Chris could tell his mate was disappointed. He really wanted to take the fight to these aliens; it was frustrating that they were all just being rendered redundant like this.

Lieutenant Rose glared back at him, along with Sergeant Holmes. They weren't going to stand for any backtalk.

"Don't count on it trooper; they might just assemble a separate force to go after those of us on the ground. So we need to be ready for any…"

Before Rose could finish his sentence, warning sirens began to blare out across the airport – an undulating, wailing note that made Chris think of those old air raid sirens from the Blitz. PA speakers joined them, barking out orders for units to get to their positions.

" _Air raid warning red; repeat, air raid warning red!"_

"Top of the roof; _now_." Lieutenant Rose ordered, keeping his voice and posture as calm as possible. Chris knew officers weren't encouraged to shout, contrary to popular belief. The men around him didn't need much encouragement – they knew what had to be done.

As the now diverse group – SAS men, Paras and IRA fighters – entered the control building and made their way up the stairs to the roof, Chris knew the plan. They would set up their Stinger and SA-7 launchers once more, and meet this new attack.

Why the aliens were now suddenly bothering with the airport when they had seemed so focused on the approaching bombers, Chris didn't know or care. It wasn't his job to know the why – only to deal with the what.

Pushing past soldiers and air force staff who got in their way, the group made it to the roof of the control building.

They were met by the briefly-stunned looks of a few men manning an observation post on the roof, who were trying to track the multitudes of alien ships in the sky above. The Control rotunda, fixed on one side of the building, loomed over them. Chris knew there were forward air controllers stationed in there, directing anti-aircraft and if necessary, artillery fire and airstrikes. Those guys would have their work cut out now.

However, when Chris looked up at the sky - and the looming alien giant advancing through it – once more, he was met by a welcome sight.

"'Dem Basterds are gettin' hammered!" That was the Glaswegian Trooper Duncan Baxter, grinning like a madman.

Chris couldn't help but grin himself. The Vulcans and Victors had reached the Destroyer first, right after the cruise missile strike. Now they were unloading their cargo.

The Vulcans were the first to drop their bombs. The last time they had done so, it had been over the single runway of the airport in tiny Port Stanley, capital of the then Argentine-occupied Falkland Islands.

The effect of that attack – carried out by one Vulcan at a time, refuelled by dozens of Victor tankers on a journey of thousands of miles from Ascension Island to the Falklands – had been a scattering of craters across that airfield, including a single large one in the runway itself.

Here, the attack was much larger – _four_ Vulcans each dropped twenty-one 1,000 pound high explosive bombs on and around the skyscraper-sized fin that was the bridge of the City Destroyer.

The Vulcans swept over that great fin, banking wildly away from their target after releasing their ordnance, the distinctive roar of their engines filling the air.

That great sound was followed by eight-four great explosions that erupted in a furious storm around the Destroyer's fin. Not even the cheering of Chris, his comrades and everyone around them in this airport could compete with the crescendo of the Vulcans' attack.

It all looked and sounded like a judgement from God himself, upon these creatures from hell. It was joined by others. The Victors came next, releasing their own sticks of high-explosive. More thunderous flashes erupted across the Destroyer's hull. Smaller strike aircraft followed, dropping laser-guided bombs and firing homing missiles.

As the bombers made their runs, Chris could see that they were causing damage. The control fin (or tower, to give it justice) and the hull around it was badly cratered. Fires burned in the stricken areas, and Chris swore that he could even see sparks from what looked like severed power lines.

But the aliens weren't going to let this stand. Some of the Attackers had been able to fight their way through the escorting fighters. The slower bombers were now at their mercy.

Chris saw two Attackers gain on one of the Vulcans, hunting it down like a great whale. Salvos of green fire struck the ancient aircraft right in the Rolls-Royce Olympus engines.

Its propulsion system in flames, the Vulcan spiralled to oblivion, the stricken engines letting out a haunting wail of death.

That wail ended when the flames caught the fuel tanks – and the Vulcan exploded mid-air in a thunderclap, leaving behind a great ball of fire and smoke. Flaming wreckage cascaded downward.

In a Vulcan bomber crew, only the pilot and co-pilot sat in ejector seats. The other three crewmembers – those not seated in the cockpit but in the compartment below it – had to make do with the entry/exit hatch in the fuselage, along with the silk on their backs.

Chris did not see any parachutes.

Another Vulcan was also hunted down and hit, trailing flames from its engines in a macabre contrail as it plunged to Earth. The Victors were just as vulnerable; several of these aircraft also met their fiery ends at the hands of alien pilots.

The flyboys were paying a high price today. Everyone around Chris, though, saw him staring up at the air battle.

"Focus on what's coming our way!" Lieutenant Rose snapped, as the SAS troop and their allies rushed to set up their MANPADs again.

Chris and Geordie got their Stinger launcher loaded and ready. Soon enough, what was headed to attack the airport came into view.

It wasn't pretty; a large formation of alien craft that Chris had not seen before, in the previous few days. They weren't the swift stingrays. They flew much slower, for one thing. At first sight in the distance, they looked to Chris like flying mussels or some other bulbous shellfish.

The way they moved – ponderous yet steady – as well as their armoured appearance and clear and straight trajectory from their giant mother-craft towards the city below, might have given away their purpose.

Chris was already guessing at what they were. He could see other groups of these same ships, heading to various locations across the city.

 _Landing craft_ , he thought. _They must be sending in ground troops._ He decided to give voice to that thought.

"Sir," he called to Lieutenant Rose, "I think they might be drop ships."

"What?"

"Troop carriers sir. Look at what they're doing – they're not going in for bombing runs."

Further off into the distance, a smaller group of these strange new craft was touching down in the still-burning parish of Holywood, to the north-east. They were under heavy AA fire as they made their approach.

Chris noticed there were a couple of other ships of a different type leading them – they looked like giant flying crabs. From their pincers, plasma rained as they cleared the way for the ships behind them. The ack-ack fire slackened, suppressed by the heavily armed craft.

 _Gunships_ – Chris knew they couldn't be called anything else.

They were clearing an LZ. Sure enough, in the wake of the Gunships' fire, three mussel-like troopships began to touch down in Holywood. The Gunships moved to land themselves – they also carried a complement of troops, it seemed.

Over the crackle of the radio, they could hear panicked reports from various units across the city. This new development was affecting the whole of Belfast.

More than a few times, they heard panicked officers and NCOs talking about the new ships touching down…and with terrified tones that chilled the soul, they described aliens pouring out from the landed ships in droves.

The flotilla approaching the airport – eight troopships leading by another four gunships – drew ever closer. Rose wasted no time. He got on the radio at the observation post on the roof, keeping his voice as calm as could be expected.

"Be advised – new enemy forces appear to be landing craft. A ground invasion is incoming; repeat, ground invasion incoming!"

Fortunately, Rose's superiors at the airport had caught on. Units were organized, defensive positions manned.

"Get those launchers ready," Holmes ordered. "If we can hit the bastards before they land, that makes everybody's lives easier! _Get to it!_ "

They wasted no time. Even as he and Geordie focused on getting their main weapon ready, Chris realised that he'd soon be seeing the aliens up close.

Not their ships – the actual aliens themselves. The same evil bastards who had pulled the triggers on those fire beams, who had burned and murdered so many.

He and his comrades would be fighting with _them_ now: up close and personal, in the flesh.

Besides the overwhelming hatred and anger he saved for when that moment came, a single question came into this head.

 _What would an alien look like?_

As the landing craft advanced on their airport, heading for a landing zone located near the foot of the runway, they were met with fierce opposition.

Flak shells exploded around them, surrounding the sturdy alien craft with clouds of smoke and shrapnel. Bright streams of tracer from roof-mounted auto-cannons clawed towards them, tearing into the armoured hulls. But even without their shields, it was clear these ships had much better protection than the swifter, more numerous Attackers.

Yet there were other weapons stationed in this area. Chris knew there was an American Patriot missile battery in Victoria Park, to the immediate south of the airport.

It was under camouflage, but the Yanks had been forced to hack down quite a few trees in the park to fit the Patriot battery in – something not all of the locals were happy about.

For his part, Chris wasn't complaining; not least when a Patriot missile roared over the airport buildings, striking one of the troop carriers.

The bottom rear section of the alien troopship – which looked like a single, downward-pointing fin – was neatly severed from the hull. In two separate sections, the troopship tumbled from the sky.

It crashed into one of the buildings in a nearby business district, close to the north-western end of the airport. A booming explosion, along with the sounds of shattering glass and masonry, echoed across Belfast City Airport.

Another troop carrier, under repeated pounding from the flak shells and auto-cannon tracer, brewed up in flames, dropping out of the approaching formation.

Even afire, Chris could see the ship was still trying to land its troops, powering towards the nearest solid ground as best it could. He even saw what looked to be the main ramp lower from the rear under-section, while the vessel was still in a deteriorating descent.

Sure enough, distant yet distinct figures emerged, rushing down the ramp. They were bipedal, with two arms and two legs like a human, but covered with…flailing tentacles of some kind.

 _So there they are._ They were ugly fuckers, even from this distance.

Even as their burning vessel began to lose control, he saw the aliens jumping clean from the ramp in mid-air towards the ground below, hoping to survive a hard-drop into combat.

Having done that himself, Chris had to hand it to them; these aliens were determined.

Still, that didn't stop him from grinning when he saw that the alien soldiers jumping from that inferno were on fire themselves; living torches that twisted and turned in death throes as they fell from the sky.

The ship itself, now a blazing wreck, crashed into on one of the green spaces near the runway, sending up a fiery-orange mushroom cloud that sprouted above the local battlefield.

That did not stop the other ships. Within seconds, the four Gunships began their runs. Two turned to the positions in the retail and commercial districts on either side of the airport. The other two approached the airport buildings, spitting fire from their cannons.

The Gunships' weapons were a much more rapid-fire variety than those seen on the Attackers – they spat endless streams of plasma into the control tower and main terminal.

" _DOWN!"_ Holmes yelled.

As the men on the roof all threw themselves down, Chris felt the building shake as the plasma struck, the booming retort of their hits deafening to hear. This was nothing compared to the sudden explosion of shattering glass and concrete that erupted just above him.

Glass shards went flying across the roof. When Chris raised his eyes again, he saw one of Rose's Paras clutching his throat, a glass shard embedded deep into his artery.

The man choked briefly – and then he went limp.

He could hear Geordie screaming.

" _What the hell was that?!"_

Shattered concrete dust and black smoke filled the air, choking everyone on the roof, causing them to cough like hags.

When the smoke and dust cleared somewhat and Chris looked up, he saw to his horror that the Control rotunda was no longer there.

All that was left was a blackened, burning stump – the glass in the framed housing lay shattered all around, or melted in its frame. That was their main link to local artillery and air support, along with several machine-gun emplacements – gone in a flash.

Chris then looked at the radio, still functioning in the OP on this damned roof. They were the ones who would be calling for the big guns now.

The control rotunda was not the only casualty of the bombardment. Chris looked to where two Warrior armoured vehicles, armed with auto-cannon turrets, had been guarding the building – and saw only burning heaps of molten slag. The crews were vaporized or…Chris tried to tell himself that the black pieces of debris he saw close the tanks weren't blackened skeletons.

With barked orders and rough encouragement, Rose and Holmes rallied the men on the roof to their feet. They had to be ready for what came.

Now they could see that the troop transports had landed right in the middle of the runway – they'd made full use of the distraction provided by the gunships.

Long ramps extended from their rear ends. What looked to be legions of aliens marched down these ramps, ready to take the fight to the ground.

Directly above them, Chris heard the whine of alien engines once more. One of the two gunships that had struck the airport had joined the other ships in landing troops. But the other was flying directly towards them.

Chris and the others braced themselves for another strafing run – but then the gunship passed over their heads.

It was headed for Victoria Park. _The Yanks wouldn't stand a chance…_

"It's going for the Patriot battery!" Chris yelled, hefting his Stinger. He and Geordie had already loaded it. "Stand clear mates!"

With that he pulled the trigger. The missile left the launcher with a loud cough, streaming a trail of smoke towards the alien gunships engines.

It detonated, setting those engines alight.

The scream of another launcher firing echoed across the roof – Chris saw it was one of the surviving IRA men launching an SA-7. The Soviet-made missile also struck the alien engines, sending the bastard into a plunging dive, crashing somewhere south of the airport.

Chris wondered if the Americans in Victoria would offer them a beer afterwards.

Right now, he had other things to worry about, as the smoke from the fired missiles washed over the airport roof.

"Jesus, Chris!" Geordie thundered as the SAS and their allies drew their rifles and took firing positions on the roof. "How about a warning next time!"

" _I yelled out a fucking warning, you twat,_ "Chris muttered. _How about a little credit for shooting that fat bastard down?_ He kept it quiet. This was no time for a row.

The aliens had landed on the runway, and were now advancing in units of company strength towards the airport control and terminal buildings.

They carried what could only be guns – they looked like blaster rifles or ray guns straight out of sci-fi – in their hands, but Chris also saw they had sharpened, thick-looking tentacles flailing about from their backs, behind an armoured clamshell-like head.

Chris really didn't want to find out what it would be like to go hand-to-hand with them. Better to keep them at a distance. Fortunately, the officers had the same idea. He could hear the soldiers from the OP communicating with mortar positions located further back, somewhere behind the building.

Sure enough, mortar rounds fell with tell-tale whistles, exploding in a deadly rain around the alien warriors. Some were blown to bits, fleshy tentacles and bony limbs splaying out in all directions in a gruesome fireworks display.

But only _some_ of the aliens met this fate. The rest scattered, expertly tacking cover. Even under fire they kept perfect formation, avoiding the mortar rounds as a group like a school of fish avoiding darting predators.

They didn't waste time in returning fire. Their plasma weapons had very impressive range, sending ringing volleys of shining green bolts towards the human defenders.

Another of the IRA men was struck in the face as he rose from cover to return fire. His fell back, his face a blackened, melted mess. Chris turned away, sickened.

He was glad when the aliens got into firing range. As one, the men on the roof opened up, sending bullets towards the advancing monsters. The machine-gun emplacements throughout the airport complex joined in, and soon the enemy was enveloped in a storm of defilade.

Now and then, the SAS men added grenade explosions, courtesy of their 203 grenade launchers slung beneath the barrels of their M-16 rifles. The IRA fighters did the same, firing off their remaining RPGs into the encroaching alien horde.

The Paras also had their own 203 grenade launchers her and there – as well as hand-thrown version. They added to the din of explosions.

The grenades and RPG had an effect – now and then an alien would lose a limb or was ripped apart in a gory mess as a result of them.

But they kept coming – further back, more troop transports brought in reinforcements. Soon enough, a great swarm of invaders was pushing towards the control tower and main terminal, outnumbering the defenders.

Furthermore, to Chris's shock, the bullets weren't working.

Well, technically they were – Chris could see the bullets tearing into alien flesh. Now and then, one would topple under concentrated heavy fire. But where a direct bullet hit would have killed or maimed a human, the alien warriors marched on, most of them completely unperturbed by the repeated hits.

Those clamshell bodies had to be bullet-proof. Right beside him, one of the soldiers from the OP took a green bolt to the chest. The man had stood to fire his weapon – he went limp and fell off the roof, into the carnage below.

Chris snarled. _They should also have a bloody weak spot._

He peered through the scope on his M-16, fixing one of the alien soldiers in his sights.

It was firing away with its plasma gun, but it wasn't aiming for him – there were other soldiers fighting the aliens below them, from the lower windows of the building and outside.

So he got a chance to have a good look at it. That clamshell head definitely seemed tough – it was massive and crested, giving these creatures a commanding presence. But Chris also noted something odd. There was what looked like a long slit, running down the middle of the clamshell head, even straight through the grooved area which looked unmistakeably like the face of the thing.

What was that? Some sort of sensory organ? If so, it might be worth firing at.

Chris was no sniper – that was Geordie's job, really – but he'd gotten good accuracy scores in all the shooting exercises. Now he would put that to the test.

Aiming for the slit in the alien's face, he fired.

He grinned at the resulting sight. The bullet definitely punctured something soft – the round bore a fleshy hole in the face, spraying out purple blood. The creature toppled forward, its limbs going limp like a puppet with its strings snapped.

Chris called to the others.

"Aim for the face!"

As it turned out, he didn't need to. They'd noticed and were copying his tactic. Geordie even had his sniper rifle out – an L118A1 – and scored another kill with a heavy-calibre bullet right in his chosen alien's face-slit.

Geordie laughed.

"Bloody split down the middle!"

He was right – Chris saw the alien his mate had just killed toppling over, it's head split apart in two neat looking halves.

But he didn't have much time to wonder how that was possible – a cry of alarm from one of the OP guys brought him into the here and now.

The aliens had reach the foot of the building. Some of them were storming the entrance, spraying plasma bolts as they went. He could hear their bloodthirsty shrieks, as well as the screams of the men below.

One of the Paras clicked a white phosphorus grenade, dropping it into the now seemingly-endless tide of aliens that swarmed below. The grenade set the creature and several others near it alight, their twisted screams adding a macabre note to the already unbearable orchestra of war.

Several other Paras did the same; more screams of aliens burning to death by white phosphorus could be heard. But even that didn't stop them. They continued to swarm the building, determined to get at the foul vermin who were burning and killing their brethren.

Chris risked another look over the concrete edge of this roof – and immediately wished he hadn't. A number of the aliens were using their flexible limbs and tentacles to climb up the wall of the building - towards him and his mates.

Geordie also saw them.

" _Aw shit…Sarge, we've got company!"_

Holmes didn't need to bark an order. All the men on the roof began unloading onto the climbing aliens - but they just kept coming.

One of them pulled itself over the edge and onto the roof…right in front of Chris.

Shit scared, he unloaded his rifle into it – but it was too quick. A whip-like tentacle struck him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He toppled backwards onto the concrete, with a perfect view of the creature as it loomed over him, bringing itself over the edge of the roof…

With a raw-throated yell Trooper Duncan Baxter, rushed forward, with a fire axe in hand. Chris had no clue where he'd gotten it from – there must have been one in a glass box somewhere on this miserable roof.

The Scotsman stuck the bite of the axe straight into the thing's face-slit, before slashing it downward. The whip-like tentacles lashed out in defence, forcing Baxter to pull out the axe, duck and throw himself back - but the damage had been done.

To everyone's shock, the head neatly split open just it had with the alien Geordie killed. For the first time, all of the SAS men understood why.

The two halves of the great armoured head were spread apart like an open zip-up jacket. Within that jacket, there was something else.

To his shock and disgust, Chris saw what it was. A much smaller creature lay within the open jacket, like a newborn baby in a mother's belly, or a slimy parasite in a man's chest. It peered out of its split armour, regarding the humans with large, black almond eyes.

Like the outer shell it had a large, crested head, but the skin was much smoother, softer and coloured green and purple. Chris could see it had quite thin skin – veins and blood vessels were almost exposed, especially along the head.

The whole thing – this little creature using another body like a tapeworm would a human – was sickening to look at. It reeked of ammonia and God knew what else.

But it was those eyes that got to Chris. Though the alien was much smaller than him, they reminded him of the dark, empty eyes of a shark as they looked directly at him, with murderous intent.

It had the cold stare of a predator. He was the prey.

It was then that Chris felt a sudden pain in his head – like someone was hammering into it with a chisel, like red ants were swarming in his skull and eating his brain from inside. He clutched at his head and screamed…

…and then it stopped. Geordie had fired his sniper rifle at point black range into the little alien's fleshy skull. Reduced to a bloody mess, the creature went limp. With a furious kick from Duncan, the living suit of armour toppled backward, back over the edge of the roof and into the mass of aliens below.

With a helping hand from Geordie, Chris got up. The pain in his head had gone – but he had no clue what had just happened.

He didn't have much time to think about it. Other aliens were climbing onto the roof.

" _Off the bloody roof, NOW!"_

That was Sergeant Holmes. _Fucking déjà vu,_ Chris thought groggily.

What remained of the rag-tag group quickly got their arses moving down the stairs and into the building.

Just as he turned to leave, Chris caught the sight of one of the IRA guys getting grabbed by an alien tentacle. The man was then thrown straight off the roof onto the tarmac below, screaming in terror.

Seconds later, he heard a loud meaty smack from somewhere on the ground.

Then the man's screams ended.

That wasn't the end of it. As Chris and Geordie followed the others into the down stairs exit, they saw Trooper Duncan Baxter for the last time.

The tall, broad, heavy-set man from Glasgow had his fire axe drawn, his rifle cast aside by alien tentacles. He looked almost like one of Captain Nemo's men from _20,000 leagues under the Sea_ , facing off against a swarm of Giant Squid.

Baxter caught sight of the last two of his comrades to leave.

"Get the fuck out of here, both of you!" He yelled. "I'll hold them off!"

Chris was about to yell at him not be _so fucking stupid_ – then he saw that the Scotsman's leg was badly scarred, most likely by a plasma bolt. He wouldn't be going anywhere on that.

Still, they both tried to bring him back – but then another of the aliens appeared just to the right of them. It sprayed a stream of plasma from its rifle.

Chris and Geordie were forced to take cover into the stairwell that lead downstairs, the bolts pinging on the door around them. They knew they had no choice but to join the others, rushing furiously into the lower levels of the building.

Thus Trooper Duncan Baxter continued to fight. He embedded the fire axe into the armour-slit of another alien warrior, this time much deeper so that it split the skull of the being inside. The creature toppled backward, dead.

Drawing his combat knife, Baxter continued to slash at the aliens as they swarmed around him – before they gleefully dismembered him with their claws and tentacles.

* * *

Belfast City Airport was lost, and was now being overrun. More of the armoured vehicles and weapon emplacements at the terminal complex had been destroyed in yet another attack run by the remaining alien gunship.

This craft continued to rain fire on the humans retreating from the airport, mowing down any who were caught in open ground. It was soon joined by another of its brethren, fresh from laying waste to the positions north-west of the airport.

Chris knew many good men had died today.

The SAS troopers, Paras, IRA men and others ran for their lives across the southern part of the airport, under covering fire from a few remaining Scorpion and Scimitar tanks, and anti-air batteries stationed in Sydenham, another parish directly south of the airport. Together with other soldiers of different units, nations and groups joining them from the now overrun main terminal, they fell back to another rally point at the airport's south-eastern edge.

Yet all of them knew they'd made the aliens pay a heavy price.

Chris could now see the great burning wreck of the gunship he'd shot down, as they finally arrived at a large car park on the south-eastern tip of the airport. It lay partly submerged in Conn's Water, an inlet just near Victoria Park.

 _A small victory._ Chris was about to witness another.

The Patriot missile battery in Victoria Park let loose another missile. The Gunship that had been pursuing them since they had fled the control building was rewarded for its efforts – with a missile straight into its face.

The craft crashed down onto the southern end of the runway in a blazing wreck. The other gunship turned away, erring on the side of caution.

It didn't change the fact that they were losing.

As the surviving ranking officer present in this part of the airport, Lieutenant Rose had assembled the large rag-tag group of about fifty men who'd fled the control tower and terminal into a roughly organised group, and they had taken up defensive positions in the south-eastern car park. Cars and trucks were turned into impromptu pillboxes, as they prepared for the next alien assault.

Fortunately, that would be delayed. Rose had used the radio – salvaged from the control tower observation post – to call in a mass artillery barrage on the overrun terminal and control buildings. The aliens occupying that area were now being hammered with high explosive. They would be delayed – just long enough for the survivors to reorganize themselves.

From his own spot that he shared with Geordie, Chris could hear the booms of the distant guns and the thunder of shells as they rained down on nearly the whole of the airport which was now in alien hands. There was no sound of war more awe-inspiring than the thunder of artillery.

All across the city, the sound of gunfire – both the familiar sounds of human weaponry and the shriek of other-worldly plasma – was omnipresent. Alien warriors had landed elsewhere throughout Belfast, targeting many key locations besides Belfast City Airport. Going by the reports and information the survivors had been able to get on the battered radio, the situation was not good.

Bitter fire-fights between human and alien were raging throughout Belfast. The battle had deteriorated into the kind of classic urban combat that guaranteed heavy casualties, as streets, roads, buildings and even rooms within buildings became contested kill zones.

The IRA and other active militant groups had been useful allies in this stage of the battle – they'd help to lure swarms of the alien warriors into traps, using improvised roadside bombs and ambushes in the tight alleys of Belfast. But still the aliens persisted.

The death toll continued to rise. Many units in the city were by now under-strength. Yet the invaders had paid a high price as well. More troop transporters continued to land more alien soldiers – as well as looked to be accompanying combat drones and bizarre walking vehicles – but they had not managed to overrun the whole city.

Not that it would matter - Chris knew they wanted to burn Belfast to the ground, not occupy it. He looked up to see the massive City Destroyer, which by now blotted out of the sun above them, casting the city in a grim darkness. He supposed that was only right.

He hadn't been able to pay attention to the Destroyer – the cause of all this – during the worst of the fighting at the airport. Now he could see the giant ship had been badly scarred by the repeated air attacks – fires burned along its hull. The Belfast air attack had used greater firepower than many others across the world – many air forces had depleted air and ordnance strength.

The damage on the Destroyer by the bombers, especially around the control tower, had been bad enough for the ship to slow down, even temporarily stop. That was why it hadn't already unleashed its main cannon on Belfast.

Perhaps that was some sort of damage control measure, Chris reckoned. Still, none of it had been enough to bring the ship down. All it had done, it seemed, was delay the inevitable.

So all of this; this whole well-planned trap and subsequent bloody battle, was for nothing.

Chris felt the depression, an intense and hopeless despair, wash over him like a heavy tide, drowning out the breath of hope he'd tasted. Within minutes, it would all be over. He'd join his parents and Lisa, his sister.

 _Maybe that wouldn't be so bad._

Geordie noticed his mood.

"It won't matter soon, you know? All we did back there. Shooting 'em down, giving it to the bastards back at the airport. Give it a bit," he pointed up at the Destroyer, "and that thing will burn it all."

Chris shrugged.

"At least we gave a good fight," he sighed. "Took a few of them down with us."

Geordie let out a small smile.

"Aye," he nodded. "I can die happy with that." Then he put his head in his hands. "We need a bloody miracle."

* * *

The Navigator began the final adjustments for the firing position. The native air attacks had been intense – they had come too close to the control centre to comfort.

Only the fact that the Navigator's chamber was hidden deep inside the control fin, at the very rear of the base where it joined the indentation in the hull, had protected it from harm. But many vital systems had been damaged – even the propulsion system had needed repairs.

None of that warranted much more than a moment's delay, however. The Destroyer only had to slow down and briefly stop, in order to repair the most serious damage.

This vessel would not fall. The natives had failed – their attacks continued, but still they had nothing that could remove the hiveship from their sky. Soon, this world would fall to the Swarm – assimilated for their growth and survival, like many others before it.

This Destroyer had arrived at its target late, while many others were already in the middle of the firing process. The Navigator had intended to arrive over the target far more quickly.

But it mattered not. During the firing process, it was best for all systems to be at acceptable function. The Navigator had been right to pause for brief repairs before continuing.

The Navigator was about to ready the main plasma beam for firing – it had full control over that process from its chamber – when something new appeared in the gestalt of the Hive Mind.

 _Pain. Fear._ Greater than anything felt before.

Without warning, one of the other Destroyers fell silent. Then another, and another after that. The Navigator hissed, sending a general signal demanding to know what was going on. But that proved impossible – the chaos caused by the native signal disruption still persisted.

So instead, the Navigator immersed itself into the gestalt of the Hive Mind. What it discovered…it had to be impossible…

Destroyers were burning, falling. Their broods and swarms, as well as their Navigators, screamed in pain as they burned to death. One after the other, they were consumed by fire.

The Navigator sifted through this psychic chaos in the Hive Mind, which was now inflamed in pain. It could not grasp how the Hive Fleet was being destroyed so quickly – the natives had failed so far to bring the Destroyers down.

Then it came. A great wail of despair from the main hiveship above – a great psychic cry of pain so great, so powerful that the Navigator shrieked in raw, unbearable pain upon receiving it. Its mouth let out a screech greater than any it had ever let free.

It felt like a blast of unparalleled proportions, spreading devastation throughout the wounded Hive Mind, which shuddered and screamed, shaken by an unstoppable earthquake of mental power.

The Navigator continued to howl in pain. Several nearby systems exploded in great showers of sparks. Many of the Destroyer's drones and warriors were killed instantly, their minds boiled in the colossal psychic backlash.

Nothing like this had been felt in this Hive Fleet, not since…the death of the Queen, at the hands of the great enemy.

As quickly as it came, the cry was gone; the ones that made it were no more.

The Navigator could not grasp this. Even as it recovered from the psychic backlash, it searched the great gestalt of the Hive Mind for its Master in orbit. It had to be there…

It was not.

The main Hiveship – the heart of the Hive Fleet – was destroyed. Already the tell-tale side effects were appearing.

The Destroyer was losing power – already there was no longer enough energy to power the main cannon. The Navigator swiftly acted, shutting down all non-essential systems, just to keep its vessel aloft.

Others were not so fortunate. The Attacker swarms lost power almost instantly, dropping to the city below or into the surrounding sea like clouds of dead flies. The warrior broods still fighting on the ground lost power to their transports and gunships, which also crashed to the surface.

Many of the warriors were themselves left badly disorientated by the Hive Fleet's sundering. They could no longer co-ordinate their efforts effectively.

The Hive Fleet – what remained of the Hive Fleet – was falling apart. The Navigator might even be the last of its kind…

No. A few Destroyers still remained, their Navigators with them. One of them had even landed, having begun initial drilling to the core.

The other Destroyers were continuing the assault on their selected targets. The Navigator paused. As it tried to process communications still available to it, it understood.

The natives had struck at the main cannon – the feedback, in turn, had brought down the other Destroyers. How the Hiveship had been destroyed was not clear.

It mattered not. The Navigator formed a new plan. The Navigator caste could think for themselves when required; especially when it served in ensuring the continuation of the Swarm.

It would not make itself vulnerable by trying to use the main cannon. Instead it would splinter off from the others in the wake of the destruction, just as the now destroyed Hive Fleet had splintered from the Queen's Fleet, following her death.

The protocols and instincts for forming a new splinter fleet were well established. That was why the Swarm was always undefeated.

The Navigator would retreat this Destroyer, along with what remained of its broods, from this world. It would find any resources on the other planets and moons in-system that it could extract on its own, before leaving this star system and making for deep space.

It would then rebuild its broods, and grow new ships and forces. With time a new, less well-defended prey world would be found – one that would make for an easier harvest.

When the Swarm lost a battle, only a single hiveship needed to escape to form a new Hive Fleet. That was why the Swarm was not so easily crushed; even a humble Destroyer could form the seed of a new Hive Fleet, given enough time.

The Navigator let out a rasped breath, cycling its tendrils through the ship's systems as it regained its confidence, its sense of control. It had to.

Now, _it_ would be the master of a new Hive Fleet. It would not fail.

* * *

All of Belfast had expected to burn. Chris' eyes never left the central dome on the City Destroyer. He would look the bastards in the face when they unleashed their fire beam.

No one expected the lights on the great ship to suddenly flicker and darken. Nobody expected the clouds of alien Attackers to suddenly fall from the sky like a rain of dead animals coughed up by a Hurricane. Nor did they expect the alien warriors to suddenly lose morale and retreat to their grounded troopships.

Certainly no-one expected the City Destroyer to suddenly pull away from the city of Belfast, after coming so close to destroying it.

Only when the City Destroyer ascended high in the sky, heading towards the stratosphere, did it become clear.

The aliens were retreating. All of their single ships were falling dead, bereft of power and crashing uselessly across the city, across the Lough, while the City Destroyer was beating a retreat. Belfast had weathered the storm.

Chris couldn't believe it. Even as someone switched on the radio – God only knew how the BBC was still broadcasting – he couldn't believe it.

He couldn't believe that nearly all the other City Destroyers across the world had been brought down. He couldn't believe that the Mothership had been destroyed in orbit.

He definitely couldn't believe that he was alive. That everyone here, the survivors of the human race, were all alive.

Yet as the soldiers all around him and across the city cheered and fired off their rifles into the sky, as Geordie hugged him, laughing and screaming like a madman, as he shed raw tears for Doug, for Duncan, for all those who didn't make it…he knew it was true.

Britain's City Destroyer hadn't been shot down, Chris knew. But it didn't matter. Belfast had survived. That was their victory – the city still lived.

All who still lived, across the United Kingdom, now had a chance to survive. Humanity, united as one people, would survive.

They were all alive.

He was alive.

They'd won.


End file.
